


Emerson

by reeology



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Germophobia, M/M, Mental Illness, Mention Of Adultery, OCD, Original Slash, Original work - Freeform, Romance, Slash, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeology/pseuds/reeology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you have the tendency to shut your door twenty-six times, it's hard for people to come in. But sometimes, especially in the case of a certain blue-eyed, half-Italian neighbor, it's hard to keep them out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written from 2005-2012.
> 
> lmfao right? 7 years?? that's crazy. 
> 
> if you want to yell at me about OCD boys in love with other boys, follow me on tumblr! username is reeology.

Exactly two hours had passed since I started checking the windows and Mistoffelees's litter box, and I had looked at the clock precisely eleven times. This time made twelve. I was running late for work again, but that was nothing new to me – I was always late. I took my time sliding my fingers across the latches on every window, moving counter-clockwise around the apartment with even, measured steps, and I even lingered to give Mistoffelees an affectionate scratch underneath his chin while I looked over his litter box. Satisfied, I grabbed my messenger bag and slung it securely over my shoulder, indulging myself in one last glance around the room. Everything was fresh, everything was locked, and everything was in place. In a word, perfect.

The only obstacle left was the door.

The door was perhaps my greatest enemy. I twisted my arm, stretching the sleeve of my pressed, slate-colored blazer over my knuckles, and seized the doorknob in a nervous grip. Simply standing for a moment, I allowed myself to breathe deeply and relax before I opened the door and shuffled outside. Once there, I only had to shut it twenty-six times, just to make sure it closed properly, and I could finally leave for work. I was being transferred today – I'd recently taken a step down from beat editor to copy editor and was starting work at a new newspaper after Mr. Wheaton had pulled some strings for me – and I wanted to make a good impression. The very best impression. I wanted to leave my new boss staring at his office door thoughtfully, saying to himself, Now there goes the best copy editor I'll ever have.

Of course, this was simply not to be. I was only on slam number eighteen when I heard the creak of a door somewhere behind me, and I turned to see my neighbor leaning languidly against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles as he watched me through his dark eyelashes. I knew him only as Nicolas, neighbor and occasional annoyance, who blasted swing music in the middle of the night until Mrs. Norton our downstairs neighbor had to smack her ceiling with a broom.

His hair was bedraggled; some of it fell in dark waves as intended, but the rest of it was divided between twisting away in haphazard flyaways and matting itself to his head. He was still in a stained blue T-shirt and jogging pants, and, after my initial reaction of fear and distaste at the state of his clothes, I had an awful rush of guilt when I realized I must have woken him up.

Of course, I couldn't let myself be distracted. If I paused too long between slams, I'd lose my place, and I'd have to start all over again. So I grabbed the knob with my sleeve and pulled, almost growling when I didn't hear the satisfying click I was looking for, and aggressively continued with door slam number twenty-two.

Nicolas's voice was smooth when he spoke. "Having some problems there, Em?"

My eyelid twitched in a little muscle spasm that spoke volumes of my agitation. I glared at him from the blurry corner of my eye, where my glasses didn't quite cover my vision, and furrowed my eyebrows. "My name's Emerson," I stressed, unable to resist the urge to slam the door a little harder this time. Twenty-four.

"Yeah, I remember," he said, chuckling. He bumped his shoulder against the wall, pushing off, and dragged himself across the grungy hallway carpet to hover near my shoulder. He laughed again, the sound warm and dark, but it did nothing to comfort me. "Do you need someone to close it for you?"

"No," I said a little louder than necessary, mostly to drown out the sound of his voice. I mentally stumbled for a moment, wondering whether I was on twenty-five or twenty-six, and decided that it hadn't sounded right. With a disappointed noise, I resigned myself to endure the entire process again.

At around slam number twenty, take two, Nicolas leaned forward on the balls of his feet, pretending to inspect the door hinges. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"It isn't shutting right," I snapped, desperately trying to avoid being distracted again. I didn't want to have to do this a third time. "It's supposed to—" There was a brief pause as I slammed it on my second attempt for twenty-six and allowed myself an unguarded smile at the rewarding click it made as it closed. My head tipped sideways to face Nicolas. "It's supposed to do that," I finished, a bit breathlessly.

His eyebrows jumped up almost to his hairline. "I can't tell the difference."

"You wouldn't," I muttered and swiveled my head to focus on the door again, locking it before I allowed my hand fall away with a sigh of relief. I tucked the key in my pocket and fixed my jacket sleeve.

Nicolas tilted his head curiously, his eyes following my movements. "Why do you cover your hand with your sleeve?"

"Because it's disease-ridden," I replied without thinking to censor myself, flinching as soon as the words left my mouth. I hated having this conversation.

His expression turned decidedly dubious at that. "Your sleeve?"

"No, the door handle."

"Oh." He glanced between my face and the doorknob and scuffed his toe against the carpet. "Sorry, kid."

"It's not your problem," I murmured, suddenly more uncomfortable than before. The palms of my hands itched, so I quickly unzipped my bag and began fumbling through it for the bottle of Purell I always kept there. I squeezed a generous portion onto my hands and dropped the container back into the proper compartment, muttering to myself as I vigorously rubbed my hands together. I noticed Nicolas giving me a strange look and shrank back against the wall, embarrassed. "It's not your problem," I repeated, catching his stare. "It's mine."

He nodded and flicked his eyes briefly up and down my frame, lingering on the messenger bag slung across my shoulder and the striped charcoal tie that rested primly against my pressed shirt. He slanted his head to the side and asked, "Going somewhere special?"

I frowned at him as I rearranged the white cuffs of my button-down. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm being transferred."

He shifted to rest his shoulder against the wall space next to me. "What exactly do you do?"

"I'm a copy editor." I paused at his blank stare. "I work for a newspaper."

"Hmmm." His lips curled in a slow, lazy smile. "It suits you."

I forced myself not to glare. "I'm honored, I'm sure."

Unfazed, Nicolas's smile never faded as he glanced at the watch on his wrist. "If you need to be there by nine, you're late," he informed me with amusement.

"What?" I followed his gaze to the ticking hands of his watch and my eyes widened. "I need to leave now!" I nearly tripped over my own feet as I sidestepped him to avoid any contact before I raced down the stairs. I could have taken the elevator, but elevators came with the danger of plummeting three stories or being chopped in half by a metal door, so it generally wasn't an option for me.

I was almost to the bottom of the stairs when I glanced up and saw Nicolas's head peering at me over the ledge of the top of the stairs, still grinning. "Good luck, kid," I heard him call, and I stopped to glare at him before I pushed through the revolving glass doors of our building with my shoulder.

When I finally arrived at the office, I was flushed and out of breath. My hair was a mess, so I hurriedly tried to arrange the dark blond strands as best I could and approached the front desk with a wary expression. There was a short, stocky man seated at a computer, sporting out of style side burns and a thick mustache. His intense eyes snapped to meet mine and I had to fight back a near-audible gulp.

"Name, please?"

"Emerson Lyre," I answered, trying to distract myself by looking around the room. It was bright and almost harshly lit with white lights on all sides. Fluorescent, I guessed. "I was just transferred here by—"

"By Mr. Wheaton, I know," he cut me off with a vague, fake sort of smile and seized a black phone from its cradle. He tucked it between his ear and shoulder and dialed with quick, efficient stabs of his fingertip. "We've heard a lot about you, Mr. Lyre," he told me while the phone was ringing.

I gave him a tight smile and fiddled uncertainly with the strap of my bag. "Good things, I hope."

He didn't reply. Whoever he'd called must have picked up, because he spun in his chair to face the wall, and I took that as my cue to butt out and continue my evaluation of the office. I could see a few baskets hanging past the doors outside, overflowing with tiny pink and red flowers, and there was a healthy-looking fern in the corner. I was debating whether or not to take a closer look when I heard the slam of the phone, and I jumped in surprise. The man was staring at me with that same intense, faux friendly expression, and his smile widened to bare his white teeth.

"Mr. Kincade will see you now," he said.

I nodded and backed away from the desk. I was just about to turn and leave when a thought struck me, and I twisted and opened my mouth to ask a question, but he beat me to it.

"There's an elevator at the end of the hallway," he instructed, pointing down the hall with the tip of his pen. I cringed inwardly.

"Where are stairs?"

"Next to the elevators."

"Excellent," I said, breathing a relieved sigh. "Where's his office?"

"Fifth floor. Mr. Kincade's office is at the end of the hallway on the right."

"Thanks," I said with a tense smile and nodded. My feet couldn't carry me away fast enough, and I was even insecure enough to break into a jog on my way up the stairs. And that was how I made my second bad impression of the day, wandering into Mr. Kincade's office with red cheeks as I struggled to get my arm back through my sleeve. I'd had to pull it over my hand again to open the door.

His secretary spared me a disinterested glance, her red lips forming a thin line across her face. She made it seem like a burden when she tilted her chin back, curly hair falling carelessly untucked from behind her ears, and addressed me with a lazy snap of her gum. "Can I help you?"

I narrowed my eyes and adjusted my glasses, noting with extreme distaste the dirty gum wrappers and lipstick-stained diet soda cans cluttering her desk, and cleared my throat.

"My name's Emerson Lyre," I introduced myself, careful to keep the tautly stretched smile in place. When all she gave me was a dull, blank gray stare, I felt compelled to elaborate, "I'm here to see Mr. Kincade."

She gave the appointment book in front of her a lazy glance. "You're not on his schedule."

"The man at the front desk downstairs just called."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, he didn't call me."

My heart skipped a beat. Had I come to the wrong place? Was Mr. Kincade not the person I was supposed to see? Was my job being given away to someone else right now because Mr. Wheaton had given me the wrong name and some walrus-looking man downstairs had phoned the wrong person?

I stopped, closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. I'd gone over this information a dozen times before today, so the odds were that this secretary was in the wrong, not me.

Opening my eyes, I forced my voice into the most pleasant tone possible and said, "Look, can't you call down there and ask him or something? I was just there—"

"I'm busy," she said, giving me a pointed look as she poised her painted crimson nails over the keyboard and began typing. After a few moments, she paused long enough to say, "If you'd like, you can call back later and I'll set up an appointment for you."

I stared at her, unable to comprehend how this situation could have possibly gone so wrong, and said, "I don't need to call back and set up an appointment, because I'm here, and he knows I'm supposed to be here, so I don't really see why—"

I stopped at the abrupt creak of a door opening. I turned my head to find a man in a black suit walking into the room, brushing at the gray streaks in his chestnut hair. He flicked his gaze between the secretary and me while a weary expression grew on his face.

He approached the woman with a sigh. "Michelle, I thought we went through this earlier. We have an intercom for a reason."

She pursed her red lips more tightly, light-colored eyes darting to meet her boss's with obvious guilt and annoyance. "But sir," she protested, "he didn't—"

He held up a hand, motioning for silence. "I don't care. If you can't do the job, then I'll phone the temp agency and have them send over someone else."

Her mouth remained open in a surprised little o, but she managed to hold her tongue.

Mr. Kincade's expression softened briefly. "In the future, just send them in, and I'll deal with it if they're not supposed to be here, okay?"

She glanced at him poutily from beneath her eyelashes. "Okay."

"Thank you. Now, Mr. Lyre…?" He stepped to the side, propping the door open with his foot, and gestured for me to walk inside. I ducked inside and absently fingered the strap of my messenger bag as I looked around the room, focusing particularly on the cushioned chair placed in front of his desk for visitors. There was no way in hell I was sitting in that.

He closed the door and claimed his seat in the squashy swivel chair behind his desk while I remained standing. He was kind enough not to say anything. I noticed that he was leafing through some folders on his desk, and I was struck by a question.

"How did you know it was me?" I wondered aloud.

He offered me a faint smile as he closed the folders with a snap. "Mr. Wheaton's told me a bit about you. Sorry to ruin the introductions like that." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and stretched his arm for a handshake. "I'm Jonathon Kincade. Nice to meet you."

I stared at his hand in a brief panic, overwhelmed by the possibility of diseases crawling across his knuckles, and quickly avoided shaking hands by suddenly shoving my fists into my pockets. I cleared my throat. "Uh, yeah, nice to meet you. I'm Emerson Lyre, but you already knew that."

His smile faltered, making me flinch inwardly with shame. I hated being rude, but there was absolutely no way I was ever shaking hands with this man. Not unless we both had gloves on. Kincade leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his stomach and studied me with a somewhat guarded expression. When I didn't say anything, he gave a little sigh and began idly poking at the folder on his desk again, eventually pulling a sheet out and staring at it.

"So, I understand that you were working on several articles before you were transferred." He tapped the paper he was holding against the desk, narrowing his dull green eyes. "I know you're joining us as a copy editor, but would you be willing to pick any of those up to publish for us?"

I bit my lip. Felt the world tilt. How could I explain to him that I was stepping down to copy editor because I'd fucked up being a beat editor so royally?

  
I couldn't. So I just shrugged and said, "Probably not."

Kincade tossed the paper down onto the desk and leaned forward. "You okay, Lyre?"

"Fine, sir," someone who sounded an awful lot like me managed to say.

Kincade rubbed the stubble on his chin, squinting. "You look like you're about to pass out, so I'll let you go for the day. Get here a little before nine tomorrow and I'll show you where you'll be working, okay?"

I hadn't realized how tense I'd been until my shoulders drooped in relief, and I even managed to hesitantly flash a smile. "Okay. Thank you, sir."

"No problem, no problem at all." He got to his feet, shuffled around the desk and brushed past me to open the door, gesturing with both arms to the open doorway. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Bright and early!"

"Bright and early," I echoed with considerably less enthusiasm as I strode into the other room. Keeping my head down to avoid Michelle's venomous stare, I slid my jacket sleeve over my fingers as casually as I could. I took a deep breath and studiously focused all my attention on the door, overlooking any confused or disgusted stares they were possibly sending my way. I opened the door and stepped outside.

The hardest part was not shutting the door twenty-five more times once I was in the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day I managed to arrive at work only forty-five minutes past nine. Mr. Kincade gave me a stern look, but I was relieved to find that he kindly refrained from commenting. He even managed a little smile before he coughed to clear his throat, motioning to the doorway as he said, "Well, I suppose I'll show you to your desk now."

"Okay," I agreed, although I suspected my answer didn't matter as he began leading me down a hallway, nodding genially at everyone we passed.

The end of the hall opened into a large room full of people, some sitting at desks, others swearing at the printers, all of them going about their business. It smelled like ink and heat and maybe a little body odor, and I pulled my collar up to cover my nose as we wove in between the long lines of tables pushed together to form desks. Finally, Kincade stopped at one clear, pristine desk, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. Hopefully that one was supposed to be mine.

"Right next to the break room," Kincade boasted, patting the pressed wood surface, and nodded toward the corner of the room. There was a long window with open blinds next to a simple door. I could see a coffee pot and a mini fridge inside.       

"Great," I said with an enthusiasm I didn't feel. "And where is the bathroom?" Not that I would be using it for its intended purpose, but I might borrow the sink on occasion.

He pointed back toward the hallway. "Men's room is the second door on the left."

"Great," I said again, at a loss for anything else to say. I had no idea how I was going to handle working in a room with so many other people. I wanted to go home.

"Well, that's about all there is to it." He raised his hand as though to clap me on the back, but then he seemed to think better of it and simply grinned instead. "If you think of any questions, you know where to find me."

"Yup," I said, and stood next to my desk until he turned to leave, too self-conscious to get acquainted with my new job while he was watching me.

I listened carefully to the sound of his retreating footsteps, glancing around to see if anyone else was looking my way. They weren't. I unsaddled my bag on my chair and set about unpacking it, placing my wipes and sanitizer neatly in the corner, and methodically began rubbing down my chair, desk, and computer. Once I felt it was safe, I tossed all the used wipes in the trash and cleaned my hands with Purell.

I pulled out a black Sharpie and a clean, cream-colored mug from my bag and wrote _Emerson Lyre_ across the bottom in cramped, tidy writing. Once I moved on to the break area, I found a shelf on which I fussily arranged the mug next to a stack of paper cups. Satisfied, I turned to leave, letting out a high-pitched noise of shock when I scarcely avoided crashing into one of my coworkers.

"Sorry," the man apologized quickly and ducked his head on his way to the water cooler.

"Er, it's all right," I mumbled, merely relieved that we hadn't literally collided. I didn't feel as though I could have survived actually coming into contact with one of these people after they'd spent the morning working, gathering dirt and grime with every keystroke, only to pass it onto me with their casual, unwanted touches. He didn't say anything more, so I took that as a dismissal and began striding purposefully away. However, I had barely taken two steps when I heard the unmistakable sound of a sneeze behind me. My eyes widened and I spun on my heel, strands of my dark blond hair swinging into my face with the force of the motion. I nearly gasped in horror, "Are you sick?"

"Maybe." He shrugged and reached for a paper cup, tapping his fingers absently against the side as he filled it with water. He sniffled. "What's it matter if I am? I can't exactly afford any more sick days."

"But—" This flabbergasted me. I stretched my collar to cover my mouth and nose. "Couldn't you be a little more sanitary? You're getting everyone here sick!"

"Am not," he said with a little frown, bordering on a scowl. He seemed to realize he was being rude, though, and hid it by tipping his head back to drain his cup. Once finished, he pitched it in the trash can and leaned against the counter, tracing his finger absently along the rim of the coffee pot. "So, who are you?" he asked after a moment's silence. "Are you new?"

I stared with undisguised horror at the way he casually spread his germs all over the counter. Didn't he know we all had to use that? I didn't bother hiding the fear and scorn in my voice as I demanded, "Did you wash your hands before you came in here?"

His left eyebrow rose to form a puzzled expression. "It's only the break room."

"But you're sick." Still clutching my collar to my face, I began to slowly back away. "I— I'm sorry, but I have to leave now," I stammered as I reached the doorway. "Work to do, you understand." Without another word, I turned and bolted for the safety of my work station. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes and I angrily scrubbed them away, cleaning and re-arranging my desk to distract myself. I loathed looking weak.

The end of the day couldn't come soon enough. I hastily slung my bag over my shoulder, tucked a few extra files under my arm, and bolted for the exit. Thankfully the walk home was rather uneventful, and I was in a rare good mood until I reached my apartment door.

The door was something I hadn't considered when I'd decided to bring home the extra work to make up for my unproductive first day. Setting them on the dirty hallway floor was out of the question, but I soon discovered that it was quite impossible to juggle everything while sliding my sleeve down my wrist to open the door.

I was just about to find a way to cram the files in my messenger bag alongside all my disinfectants when I heard a door click open, followed immediately by Nicolas's voice. "You and doors just don't get along, do you?"

I turned to glare at him, my expression flushed and annoyed. "Obviously not," I snapped.

"Would you like a hand?" he asked, clearly not intimidated by my irritable tone of voice. He smiled as he swept over, using two hands to loosen the dark red tie that lay neatly against his white dress shirt, both of which were clean for once. I almost commented on it, but thankfully I caught myself before I said anything embarrassing and quickly averted my gaze from him and to the door.

"Sure," I shocked myself by accepting his offer. "But don't be surprised when I slam the door in your face twenty-six times."

"No problem, kid," said Nicolas as he gripped the door knob. I found myself studying the astonishing lack of stains or dirt on his crisp shirt and blushed when he caught me staring. He softened the situation with a smile – it seemed like he was _always_ smiling – and touched his tie with his free hand. "Like it?" he asked, winking when I didn't respond. "It's not every day I dress up, you know."

I finally shook my gaze away and forced a stern frown across my lips. "At least it's clean."

His smile subtly tipped into a knowing smirk. "Why, thank you," he drawled as he slowly pushed the door open. "I had to give a presentation today."

I didn't know how to respond to that. It wasn't as though I was particularly interested – I hadn't even asked him about it. Awkwardly, I shuffled through my doorway and settled on the world-shaking response of, "Oh."

Judging by the way his smile never faltered, I assumed that he wasn't bothered by my rather obvious lack of social skills. He brought his arm above his head, rested it against the door frame, and leaned into it. "By the way, Em—"

"Emerson," I corrected him for what felt like the millionth time.

He ignored me, looking quite smug. "Weren't you going to shut the door in my face?"

I blinked, and then smirked, mirroring his haughty expression almost exactly. "Thanks for reminding me," I said, just before I closed the door on a very surprised looking Nicolas. My triumphant mood faded quickly, however, as I felt the familiar tug of anxiety – what if it hadn't shut, what if it wouldn't lock, what if I were robbed? I pulled the door open again, treated to a view of Nicolas in the same position I'd left him.

He was grinning. "Miss me?" he asked.

"Shut up," I said and slammed it again, only to pull it open a few seconds later. "You know what I have to do."

"Of course I do," I heard him say in between slams. I paused long enough to watch him retreat back across the hall, settling directly opposite me to rest against the wall.

"What're you doing?"

"Enjoying the show."

I faltered. "What?"

"You heard me," he said. His blue eyes seemed lighter. Mirthful. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Whatever." I told myself to ignore him and continued my ritual, both annoyed and embarrassed. When I finished, I turned around to find Mistoffelees wandering into the room. He purred as he rubbed his back against my ankles.

Smiling, I squatted down to stroke his fur. Mistoffelees was the one person I felt comfortable touching, if you could call a cat a person. He was intelligent, self-sufficient, quiet, and, most importantly, clean _._

 Compared to cats, it was no small wonder why I disliked most humans.

* * *

The following morning I was only twenty minutes late, which was quite an accomplishment as far as I was concerned, and I began the day in a relatively good mood. I even indulged myself in whistling cheerfully as I rubbed my keyboard with a disinfecting wipe. A sudden knock on the table halfway through my routine made me look up, and I was met by the smiling face of my boss.

"Good morning, sir," I said pleasantly.

"Lyre! Good to see you," chirped Kincade. His eyes lost a bit of their sparkle as they drifted to the Purell and Clorox sitting on my desk, next to a box of rubber gloves and other various cleaning products that I'd been thoughtful enough to bring in this morning. He coughed a little, but his voice retained all of its previous kindness as he said, "I see you've settled in quite nicely."

"Yes, sir." I echoed his smile very faintly. So far, he hadn't given me any indication why he was here, and I began to fidget.

"Good, good," he continued, and I noted that he appeared faintly awkward as he shifted his weight. "So," he cleared his throat, "there aren't any problems you'd like to address?"

"No, sir." I frowned at his uneasiness, beginning to worry. Was I in trouble? "Should there be?"

"Well, there is one small issue." His eyes strayed to the clock with no small amount of subtlety, making me wince.

"I'm sorry, sir," I rushed to explain, "I know I was late today."

"And yesterday," he interrupted.

I bowed my head sheepishly. I was going to be fired, and then I would have to live in a gutter. My life was over. "Er, yes."

"And the day before that."

I cringed at that reminder, practically touching my knees with my nose as I bent further. "I know. I have issues getting out of the house."

"Yes, I've noticed." He hesitated. "Listen, Lyre, I'll be honest with you. There's another reason why I'm here."

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, trying in vain not to appear overly nervous or anxious. "Yes?"

"I've gotten some strange complaints from Pattiz—"

I blinked in confusion. "Pattiz?"

He indicated the table next to mine with a jerk of his head. The beat editors. "Steve Pattiz. Sports and Legal News."

I frowned, completely perplexed until I heard a sneeze, and I promptly flushed pink. "Oh, right. Steve." I fidgeted. "What'd he say?"

He continued somewhat hesitantly, "Not a lot, just a few concerns. Combined with what I've noticed and what Mr. Wheaten told me…" He stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowed. "Emerson, is there anything you haven't told me?"

"Not that I know of."

He looked extremely dissatisfied with my answer. He lowered his voice so that the conversation stayed just between us. "In that case, Lyre, I'd like to recommend that you see an in-network psychiatrist. Or therapist. It's your call, but I want some documentation by the end of the month. I'm worried about you."

My eyes flew open in surprise and anger. "What? Why?" I shook my head fervently, not even bothering to wait for a response. "No. Absolutely not. My problems are none of your business."

He quickly held up a hand to stop me. "Look, I don't want to argue with you, so I'll make this simple. I need my employees in good shape. Either you see someone and try to sort this out, or I'll have to let you go. There's nowhere to step down after copy editor."

"I'm pretty sure that's against the disabilities act," I pointed out.

Kincade gave me a shrewd look. "Have you been diagnosed with anything?"

No, thank God.

"Not really."

A nod. "Then I'm completely within my rights to tell you to get your act together or you're gone. If you get diagnosed with something, then that's another story."

My face turned white with apprehension. "But I don't like shrinks."

He frowned, scrubbing a hand uneasily through his short brown hair. He glanced around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. "Neither do I—heck, neither does anyone, but if you show me you're trying to get whatever's making you inefficient under control, I'll keep giving you a shot." He paused and licked his lips, a thought clearly straining behind his eyes, and he sighed before he admitted, "If you were anyone else, you'd already be fired. Late on the first day? Come on."

"What if it doesn't work?"

He shrugged. "We'll discuss that later, if it happens."

I sighed, knowing I was defeated. After all, I couldn't afford to lose my job over something as stupid as this. "All I have to do is talk to someone?"

His head bobbed in an enthusiastic nod. "All you have to do is talk to someone. Once we find the problem, we'll deal with it from there."

I muttered under my breath, " _If_ we find the problem."

He looked at me oddly. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing," I covered. My stomach twisted involuntarily as I looked up into his eyes. "Okay, fine," I finally gave in. "I'll do it."

"Good, good." He paused to give me a warm, encouraging smile. "Thanks, Lyre."

"When do I have to see him?" I asked glumly.

"Sometime this month. That sound good?"

"Perfect," I said sarcastically.

"Good." He rapped his knuckles against the table once, reminding me of a gavel promulgating my sentence, and I frowned at his retreating backside.

I slumped in my desk rather dejectedly and slacked off for about five minutes, only to suffer an attack of conscience and double my efforts for the rest of the day. On the way home, I wanted to at least stop at the store to buy something for dinner, but I'd ended up staying behind to ease my conscience, so I was already running late.

When I finally arrived at the apartment, this time free of any pesky files to keep me from opening the door, I was surprised to see Nicolas spread out in the hallway, a book propped casually against his knees. I could scarcely do more than stare, disbelief written all across my face, and ask, "What the hell are you doing there?"

He glanced up from his book and spared me a large smile. "Waiting for you," he said quite simply.

"Why?" I pressed, both eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Shrugging, he climbed slowly to his feet, book tucked beneath his arm. "I was worried, I guess."

I was still rooted to the spot, unable to believe a word he said. "Why were you worried about me?"

"You're usually home by now, so when I didn't hear the door slamming fifty times, I decided to come out and check on you."

I twitched. "Twenty-six, actually."

"Huh?"

"Nothing." I slid my hand into my sleeve and grasped the door knob, shooting him a disgruntled look over my shoulder. "Well, you know what's coming, so you can go now."

Apparently he took the hint, because he ducked his head and backed away as he said, "Whatever you say, kid."

I pulled the door open and stepped inside. My bag was digging painfully into my shoulder – it was weighed down today because of all the extra cleaning products I brought to work – so I quickly set it down on the kitchen counter before I turned to continue with the door. I wasn't expecting to see Nicolas still standing in the hallway, and I made no effort to hide my surprise.

"What are you still doing here?" I asked.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, looking meek. "I'm locked out, apparently."

"Don't you have a spare key?"

He scuffed his feet. "Well, yeah."

"Where is it?"

I watched as his cheeks flamed a dark shade of red. "Inside," he admitted weakly.

I snorted, "A lot of good that does." My fingers tightened, the muscles twitching to shut the door, but I hesitated, studying Nicolas instead. His jeans were clean and wrinkle-free, and there were water spots covering the shoulders of his light blue T-shirt, probably from his wet, dripping hair. He looked clean enough, but I couldn't forget that he was sitting on the floor only moments ago. Kicking myself internally for having another attack of guilt, I offered slowly, "You can come in if you wash your hands and change your clothes."

He looked just as surprised as I felt, but that didn't keep him from smiling and shuffling forward. "I don't have anything to change into."

"You can borrow something." I could scarcely believe I was saying this, but then again, it was my fault he was locked out. Sort of. My fault for being late, anyway.

For some reason, he looked extremely amused at that. "Em," he said between chuckles, "you're considerably shorter than me."

"Emerson," I snapped somewhat absently and stepped aside to let him walk by. Tracing the shape of the door knob through my sleeve, I paused thoughtfully before I asked, "Do you like cats?"

He raked a hand through his wavy hair and shot me a curious look over his shoulder. "Do you have one?"

I nodded.

He smiled and said, "Then yes." As if on cue, Mistoffelees slinked into the room, his small red collar jingling merrily to announce his entrance. Nicolas sank to his knees and set his book aside to hold out his hand in a friendly gesture, palm down. "What's his name?" he asked me.

"The Magical Mister Mistoffelees." I finished with the door while he made friends with my cat. "But I call him Mistoffelees."

He snorted quietly, "Not much of a nickname." Leaning forward, he gently scratched my cat behind one soft black ear with a little smile tipping the corners of his lips. "Hello there, Misty."

I suppressed a smirk at his name choice for my cat, bending to pick up the water bowl from the floor. "So, what are you going to do about your key?"

He shrugged and released Mistoffelees, who had begun to mewl obnoxiously at the sight of his water bowl. "Call down to the front desk and ask if they have a spare, I suppose. If not, I'll have to call a locksmith. Which reminds me." He stood, brushing cat hair off his pants and shirt. "Can I use your phone?"

I shot him a purely disgusted look. "Not until you wash your hands."

Surprisingly, he didn't seem very offended. "Oh, right," he said, and he quickly made his way to stand next to me at the sink.

I rolled my eyes. "Not this one."

"Um, okay? Something wrong with this one?"

"It's for dishes only." I pointed to my bathroom. "Use that one."

"Okay," he said slowly, looking puzzled. "Should I change while I'm in there?"

"I guess so," I said with a shrug. "Hold on, I need to finish some things first."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like—" I caught myself just in time, tripping on the word _rituals_ and breaking off with a frown. "Nothing. Just a few chores," I amended softly. I turned on the faucet and started to fill Mistoffelees's bowl with cold water, muttering distractedly, "Go wash your hands."

"But you just…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I'll just sit here until you're done," he said and strode over to the chairs arranged neatly at my kitchen table.

"Don't touch anything," I reminded him less than gently.

Nicolas smirked and held his hands mockingly in the air, sitting primly on the edge of one of my chairs. "How's this?" he asked.

"Fine, I guess," I grumbled and turned off the faucet. I refused to look at him as I bent and set down the bowl for Mistoffelees, who immediately trilled and stuck his face in it. After stooping to pet him for a moment, paying special attention to the sensitive white spot under his chin, I moved to the stove to confirm it was still off before I shifted to examine all of the windows. When I came back, Nicolas started to get up, but I waved him back down with an unhappy expression as I went through this four more times.

Once I had finished, I studiously avoided Nicolas's eyes and disappeared into my bedroom to fetch him the largest clothes I owned, which turned out to be a baggy gray college sweater and black sweat pants.

"Here," I said when I came back into the room, thrusting the clothes at him with my gaze glued to the floor.

"Thanks," said Nicolas softly, and I felt his fingertips trail across my knuckles as he accepted the bundle of clothes. Then, without a word, he ducked into the bathroom, and I was left with unfamiliar warmth in my chest. I couldn't believe that he hadn't commented on my erratic behavior. It was obvious that he'd noticed – how could he have not? And yet he hadn't criticized me. I stared after him, confused by both his actions and the burning sensation that lingered with his touch. It wasn't the pestering, itching feeling that I was used to.

For once, it was actually bearable.


	3. Chapter 3

"Am I allowed to use the phone now?" asked Nicolas as he returned from the bathroom, carrying a bundle of rumpled, dirty clothes. He stood with them held against his hip, studying me with earnest, dark blue eyes, and I suddenly found it hard to respond.

Fumbling for even a lackluster response, I could only blink stupidly. "Huh?"

He smirked as he raised one black eyebrow, pointing to the portable phone I kept on a table in the main room. "Can I use it?"

"Oh." Ducking to hide my mortified expression, I waved my hand vaguely to sign my approval. "Sure, go ahead."

"Thanks," he said with a grateful grin and deposited his old clothes in the corner. His fingers curled around the phone, flexing slightly as he dialed a number with his thumb. It made me wince to watch him – I was going to have to clean that, but I'd have to wait, so I worked hard to force the thought from my mind. As a distraction, I made myself focus on the smooth sound of his voice as he conversed with the person on the other end of the line.

"Hey," said Nicolas loudly into the receiver. His face brightened, even though I was the only one who could see it. "It's Nico Bianchetti from apartment thirty-one," he continued, fidgeting with the hem of my old gray sweatshirt, "and I seem to have locked myself out."

There was a pause during which he nodded energetically, obviously listening to whatever the speaker had to say. "Yeah?"

He released the shirt and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "How long will that take?" he asked, waited a beat, and then winced, visibly dejected. "Tomorrow, huh?" he went on in a softer voice. "Well…"

Nicolas stopped again, sparing a quick, darting glimpse in my direction. His face brightened rather suddenly as he piped into the receiver, "No, that's okay, don't worry about it." A smile split his face in two as he glanced at me again. "I'll manage," he said, eyes flicking continually between the phone and me. I blinked as I watched him, both confused and interested.

"Yes, thank you," he said, his thumb already creeping toward the off button. "Goodbye," he murmured, then quickly clicked the phone off and shot me a rather pleased look.

I raised my eyebrows expectantly. "Well?" I prompted.

"Nothing much," he said with a shrug. He dropped the phone back into its cradle and stretched, his back popping. "They can have another key made, but it won't be ready until tomorrow morning." A pause. "So, I was wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Could I possibly stay here?" he asked. "I know I'm too dirty to sleep on your couch, so I could just take the floor or something—"

I snorted to interrupt him, "You can sleep on the couch." I had to resist a smirk at the surprised look that swept over his tan features. "I'll just have to clean it later, is all."

"It won't be too much trouble, will it?"

I waved my hand. "I like cleaning," I said.

"If you say so," he said, looking rather disbelieving about the whole situation, but he wisely didn't comment further. His hands tapped along the back of a kitchen chair, although he didn't actually sit down, possibly for the sake of my obsession. After a moment, he cleared his throat and looked at me. "So, have you eaten?"

"No," I said, and I wearily sank down onto a cushion as the thought of food entered my mind. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until just then.

Nicolas only hesitated for a split second before venturing the question, "Are you going to?"

"Yes," I answered and resisted the urge to roll my eyes again.

"Then why are you just sitting there?" He pushed up his sleeve to look at his watch. "It's already past seven."

I shrugged and took off my glasses, rubbing my eyes with my free hand. "That's the great thing about frozen dinners. They don't take very long to make."

I'd never seen anyone look quite so shocked at such a simple admission. "Frozen dinners?" he repeated, sounding scandalized.

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, I guess," he said hesitantly. "Depends on how often you eat them."

I cringed guiltily, unwilling to tell him that I rarely ate anything else.

"Don't tell me…" He trailed off with a disapproving look. Spinning on his heel, he strode purposely over to the refrigerator and pulled open the freezer door. "Oh, my God, that's all you have?"

I rubbed my elbow in an absent, uncomfortable gesture. "So what?" I asked brusquely, bordering on irritably. "I don't like to cook."

Laughing, Nicolas said, "Em, you live next door to an Italian chef."

I paused at that, staring at him. _Italian_?

I supposed I should have already known that. His last name was Bianchetti, after all. However, the blue eyes had somehow always thrown me off, and the plaque at the front of the building clearly stated that name was spelled Nicolas, which, in the true spirit of Italian language, technically should have been spelled Nicholas for pronunciation purposes. Perhaps he was merely half and half. I wanted to ask him about it, but I figured that questioning his heritage would come off as rude, and I'd already been offensive enough as it was. So instead I settled on asking, "You're a cook?"

"Yeah," he said, looking proud. "I own the Italian restaurant down the street. Didn't you know that?"

I shook my head, bewildered. "No." Secretly, I wondered why he was wearing ties and making presentations if he was a cook, but I guessed that if he was the owner, perhaps he was making business deals. Opening up a chain or something, maybe?

Wait. Why the hell was I thinking so hard about Nicolas, of all people? I quickly shook my head to clear it, just in time to hear his response.

"I suppose you wouldn't," he murmured. A smile crept along the edge of his lips as he gave me a long, considering look. "Say, you wouldn't be willing to let me cook for you, would you?"

"Absolutely not," I replied automatically.

He looked somewhat hurt. "But it would be in exchange for letting me stay here."

"No way," I said, shaking my head. "You're dirty."

"But I just washed my hands!" he protested.

"Well, you'll get dirty."

He fell silent, but I could tell by the glow of his blue eyes that he was plotting something. Eventually, his face lit in a smile and he suggested in a coaxing tone of voice, "You could supervise me."

"I don't think so," I said, but somehow the expression on his face made me reconsider.

Inching subtly closer, he murmured, "I'd even let you tell me when and how many times to wash my hands."

I gave him a distrustful look despite the way I felt my resolve crumbling. Eventually I said, "It depends on what you'd make."

Almost as though he could sense that I was slowly giving in, the corners of his lips twitched in a grin. "Something good, trust me."

Scarcely able to believe that I was allowing this, I said, "Well, all right." My mouth tipped in a slight frown. "But I'm taking you up on that offer to supervise."

"Fine by me," said Nicolas, looking all too happy as he rifled through the lower cabinets of my kitchen and reached for a pot. Watching him with wary eyes, I cleared my throat loudly.

"Wash your hands."

He stopped, looking at me with disbelief written clearly across his face. "But I just did."

Irritably, I pointed out, "You touched things afterward, though."

He scoffed. "Like what?"

"The phone," I said, jabbing a finger at it almost accusingly.

"Okay, fine." Defeated, he let out a weary sigh. "But do I have to use the bathroom sink again?"

I shrugged. "You can either do that or cook in rubber gloves, like I used to."

"You can't wear rubber gloves while you cook," snorted Nicolas.

I looked away, abruptly self-conscious. "Yeah, I learned that rather quickly," I said. Unconsciously, my hands clenched to hide the scars. "That's why I eat TV dinners now."

"I see," murmured Nicolas. Wordlessly, he shuffled into the bathroom. When he came back, he was shaking water off his hands, and a smile curved his face as he resumed pulling out pots and pans. "So, what kind of food do you like?" he asked, suddenly much more cheerful.

"Pre-packaged," I muttered.

He laughed. "Yeah, but what kind?"

"I don't know," I said, desperate to change the subject. "I'm not picky."

"Not picky, huh?" With a smirk, he motioned wordlessly to the incriminating stack of TV dinners behind the freezer door, one eyebrow quirked in a question.

Flushing, I said, "Okay, so I lied. But you should probably look at the available ingredients before you start offering me things."

"Good point." He snapped his fingers before opening the pantry, lingering on the noodles. "You like pasta?"

"Yeah. Very sanitary," I joked half-heartedly.

My attempt at humor was met with the appropriate loud laughter. I managed a smile as I watched him pull out and inspect cans before he finally stopped on some tomato sauce.

"Spaghetti okay?"

"Sure," I said. My fingers started to itch as I watched him line up the can on the counter top next to a box of noodles. "You have to wash your hands again," I said.

He stared at me, eyes half-hidden by a piece of wavy hair that had fallen into his face. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope." _I only wish I were._

"Christ." Sighing, he slinked back in the direction of the bathroom. "If you say so, kid."

I smiled humorlessly at his back. He had no idea.

It took a long time to make dinner. I directed him to wash his hands in five minute intervals, sometimes ten when I was feeling generous. Given all the possible openings for disaster, I was pleasantly surprised when he revealed not only an edible dinner, but a tasty one at that.

Apparently it paid to keep an Italian chef around.

After dinner, I set him up with the appropriate pillows and blankets and told him to sleep while I tended to the dishes. It was late by then, and it was even later once I had finally finished cleaning our plates for the fifth time.

I was too embarrassed to look at him when I clicked the light off and said goodnight.

* * *

After my morning shower, I walked into the living room, taken aback to find Nicolas still on the couch. I'd half-forgotten he was there, and it caught me off guard to see him stretched across the cushions, the blanket pushed down to his hips in his sleep. His hair was tousled, obscuring most of his face, and I was fairly certain he was snoring.

I tried my best not to wake him up while I went about my routine, but that was, of course, impossible. I had been checking the windows for close to thirty minutes when Nicolas surprised me by speaking in an incoherent rumble.

"What time is it?" he mumbled into his pillow.

"You're the one with a watch," I said as I swept past on my way to check the stove.

His mouth stretched to accommodate a quiet, sleepy noise as he lifted his arm to glance at the thick, black watch on his wrist. He blinked hazily before saying, "Do you always wake up this early?"

I shrugged idly while bustling around the room, glancing at the clock for the twelfth time. "Couldn't sleep," I admitted.

Nicolas propped himself up on one elbow to watch me, looking curious. "How come?"

"Thinking about work."

He sat up with his eyes fastened steadily on mine. "Everything okay there?" he asked, gaze sharp with sudden interest.

I scowled, unable to believe my big mouth. 

"It's fine," I snapped and walked hesitantly to the door.

"But it kept you up all night," he pointed out in a soft voice.

I subtly averted my gaze, feeling flustered. "It's really none of your business."

He held up his hands in a vague sign of defeat, palms vulnerably facing outwards. "Okay, okay," he said. "I understand." Silence reigned momentarily as he watched me fiddle with the door knob, my hand inside my sleeve as usual. "You do realize that I'm just going to have to undo all this after you leave, right?"

I froze. "What?"

"I still have to shower, change, and eat breakfast before I leave for work in an hour."

"Isn't your key ready?"

"Oh." He blinked. "Probably, I guess."

"Good." I released the door knob somewhat reluctantly. "Then I suggest you go get it so I can finish with this."

His eyes narrowed in a decidedly concerned expression. "Emerson, I'm perfectly capable of closing the door behind myself."

"But you won't close it _right_ ," I insisted, cringing internally as my voice slipped into a growl. _Shit._

Nicolas shut his eyes for a moment and exhaled quietly through his nose. When his eyes flickered back open, they were dark and resigned. "Fine," he said, without a trace of anger or sadness. Just weary acceptance. "I'll see you later, then."

I watched him go and absently placed one hand over my stomach, attempting to quell the sick, cold knot that was twisting inside of me.

That was when I realized: this wasn't normal.

* * *

"How goes the search?" Kincade asked the next day, appearing like a phantom at my work station.

Startled, I jumped and narrowly avoided dumping my tea all over the pile of editorials I had spread across the desk. I stammered uselessly, put down my mug, and straightened the already-pristine pile until I could compose myself.

"Search for what, sir?" I eventually piped up.

"Oh, you know, just what we talked about yesterday."

I frowned, confused by his vagueness until I realized he was trying to be discreet for my sake. Of course. We were in public. Yesterday there had been less people around. Today he was being more considerate.

"It's going okay," I hedged, which wasn't exactly a lie. It was going fine if you defined "okay" as "no progress whatsoever". I decided to take a slightly more honest approach and added, "I'm not really sure how to find a provider."

Kincade surveyed the room with a contemplative expression, taking in the larger crowd of people as deadlines loomed, and then said, "Let's go to my office to talk about this."

"Oh, uh, okay."

I must have looked stricken, because Kincade grinned and winked at me as I got up and we started walking. "No worries, Lyre. Just trying to protect your privacy."

"Right." I nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem."

We nodded to Michelle as we walked in, who hurriedly said into the phone, "I'll talk to you later, Chris," and slammed down the receiver into its cradle. "Mr. Kincade, welcome back."

"No personal calls," was all he said as we disappeared into his office. Luckily he closed the door so I didn't have to.

Kincade's office was the sort of office I wanted to have one day. White paint, no clutter. The only art in the room consisted of a clock and a large landscape painting of a waterfall on the wall above his desk. He had a big black leather desk chair, which he sank into with a small relaxed sigh. "Have seat, Lyre."

I suppressed a cringe. "No thanks, sir. This won't last long, will it?"

"I suppose not." He opened one of the drawers of his desk and withdrew a stress ball, which he squeezed rhythmically like a heartbeat. His chair swiveled to face the window. "Insurance covers ten mental health visits, then ninety percent of costs after that. The number is on the back of your insurance card. Just call and they'll set you up. Sound good?"

A phone call. I could handle that. "Yes, sir."

"Great. Anything else you wanted to talk about?"

I shook my head. "No, sir."

"Good deal. Sorry to drag you in here just for that."

"It's no problem, sir," I said politely, and turned to leave.

On my way out, the habit was so ingrained in me that I slammed the door behind me twice before I realized what I was doing and stared down at my hand in horror. Michelle balked at me. Inside, I could picture Kincade staring at the door, wondering what the hell I was doing. Both embarrassed and ashamed, I launched myself down the hall and didn't look back.

* * *

I shook the entire walk home, even after the comfort of the apartment greeted me. My hands trembled so badly that I could scarcely unlock my door. Mistoffelees purred loudly upon seeing me, but I paid him little notice. I tossed my bag with expert aim onto the end table by my couch and settled in to shut the door all twenty-six times. Afterward, I went around checking the stove, the windows, and made sure Mistoffelees had food and water.

Even after I had finished, I still didn't feel calm. I arranged all my cleaning products on the kitchen counter and attacked every last speck of dirt in the apartment until I was satisfied. Nothing, not even Mistoffelees, caught my attention until I heard a loud, sharp knock, and I ripped the door open somewhat breathlessly.

"Nicolas?" I asked in confusion.

"Hey," he said, smiling. He waved with one hand, the other stretching to offer me a bundle of clothes, which I instantly recognized as the sweater and pants I'd loaned him. His smile tipped into a grin as he said, "I thought you might like these back."

"Oh." I accepted them, still blinking rapidly, and forced myself not to think about the germs. Or tried to, anyway. "Thank you," I managed to say.

"You're welcome," he said and shoved his hands into his pockets, still standing awkwardly in my doorway. He appeared as though he was debating whether or not to say something when he happened to look past me and inside my apartment. His eyes widened in surprise. "Holy cow."

I looked behind me in confusion. "What is it?"

To my immense relief, he only shook his head in amusement. "Jesus, kid," he laughed. "I didn't think that apartment could get much cleaner, but you certainly proved me wrong."

"I was just tidying up a little."

He snorted. "Em, it's almost painful, it's so clean. What did you do to get all this stuff, sleep with the secretary of Lysol?"

Clenching my jaw, I focused on his persistent use of _Em_ rather than the jab at my cleaning habits. Did he honestly never hear me when I told him my name was Emerson?

"Why do you always do that?" I asked.

He looked sincerely mystified. "Do what?"

"Shorten my name."

Looking more and more confused, he slowly quirked one eyebrow and said, "Because it's a nickname."

"I don't like nicknames," I said with a frown, shifting restlessly under his stare. "I've never had one before."

His eyes widened. "Not even when you were a kid?"

"No," I said and shook my head. "Never."

For some reason, he looked smug at that. "Well, you've got one now."

I couldn't resist the sarcastic overtones in my voice. "Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome," said Nicolas cheerfully, just as a timer chimed in my apartment. His expression turned inquisitive again, and he tilted his head, leaning sideways to investigate. "What was that?"

"Nothing," I said immediately. "I was timing how long to…" I trailed off, coloring in humiliation. "It's nothing. I've got to go now."

"But—" He craned his neck as he strained to see inside.

"It's _nothing_ ," I insisted, almost desperately. He was practically inside the apartment now, what with the way he was leaning, and I panicked in a moment of anxiety and mortification and slammed the door in his face before I could think twice. I stood there for a few minutes, breathing heavily, before my muscles started twitching and I gave into temptation. I opened the door.

But Nicolas wasn't there.

* * *

Calling to set up an "emergency" appointment with a psychiatrist hadn't been a big deal, but I thought I was going to vomit the entire way there when the time came. My stomach was doing acrobatics and my heart hammered urgently inside my chest, making me more nervous and jumpy than usual. I took my time, measuring and counting my steps as I walked, and I made sure to avoid all the cracks in the sidewalk. Walking took longer, but this was New York and I suspected I would have had an apoplectic fit if I ever set foot on a subway or inside of a cab. I'd had a car in college, but every time I hit a bump in the road I was convinced I'd hit a body, so I'd have to circle back to make sure I wasn't accidentally committing a hit and run. In the long run, it was actually faster to just walk.

No matter how many cracks I avoided or how many steps I counted, I couldn't shake the lingering feeling of guilt about Nicolas. I just had no clue how to respond to people; they were so naturally friendly and easy-going, and I had trouble expressing even simple gratitude.

  
It was with heavy footsteps that I finally reached the psychiatrist's door. I stopped directly in the middle of it, trying to burn holes into the off-white paint with my eyes. The more I stared, the more I realized how terribly odd my behavior was, and I was afraid to open the door and step inside. Immersed in my thoughts, it completely caught me off guard when the door suddenly flew open and a girl with short, bright red hair emerged, dragging a briefcase dejectedly behind her. Her black pinstripe jacket caught on the door handle, and she made a soft, miserable noise of distress as she half-heartedly tried to free herself.

Her eyes caught mine, and she stared at me, unblinking, before she made a choked sound and rushed down the hallway, head bowed. I watched her go for a moment before realizing the door was swinging closed, and I quickly dashed inside before it shut again and I would be forced to touch it.

Inside, there was no receptionist, just a table with tidy stacks of papers and a sign hanging above it: "NEW PATIENTS, PLEASE TAKE ONE OF EACH." There was a pile of clipboards next to it, along with what I at first thought to be a flower arrangement but quickly realized were pens with fake flowers strapped to them. Glad there was no one to witness me wielding a flowery pen, I selected a daisy, took a clipboard and the three forms, and stood while I wrote down my information. There was a row of chairs behind me, but I chose to stand.

Not long after I finished, I heard another door open and slam, and I looked up into a pair of lively gray eyes hidden behind thick glasses.  
The man smiled. "You must be Emerson Lyre."

"Er, yes," I said, feeling incredibly stupid as I straightened. He didn't seem to notice.

"Nice to meet you. My name is Bernard Demitrav. Please, come with me."

He took the forms from me and we shuffled through another pair of doors and into what appeared to be his actual office. There were two overstuffed cranberry armchairs, a tall bookcase creaking beneath the weight of what looked like every psychiatry book ever written, and a plain walnut desk, which he seated himself behind.

"Sit down," he encouraged, motioning to one of the arm chairs. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, a file drawer, and began thumbing through folders. He didn't give me a second glance.

I pressed my lips into a thin, straight line and eyed the chair with no small amount of suspicion, hesitating before I responded to his offer, "No, that's okay."

Demitrav raised his eyes to meet mine. "Emerson, we're going to be talking for quite some time. I suggest you sit down." He smiled to lighten the mood. "Otherwise, I fear you'll be quite uncomfortable."

I clutched my messenger bag closer to my side, shaking my head. "I'm fine," I insisted, and my heart beat faster at his penetrating gaze. I swallowed roughly. "Really."

He studied me a moment longer before he shrugged, finally pulling a folder from the drawer. "All right, then," he said, and he adjusted his glasses as he tossed the file and my forms onto his desk. "Before we begin, I have to tell you that we work on a strict privacy policy. Nothing you say here leaves this office, okay? Complete confidentiality."

I nodded, unable to do much else.

"Good, then we can begin." He pulled open another drawer, produced a clipboard, and slid the folder and my forms underneath the clip. "So, Emerson. Tell me about yourself."

I stumbled, caught off guard. My expectations had centered on questions regarding Mr. Kincade's reasons for sending me here: my strange habits, my lack of social skills, things of that nature. I'd been prepared for those, I thought. But this…

"About myself?" I asked, unsure I'd heard him correctly.

Demitrav's head dipped in a nod. "Yes," he said, waving his hand around as he expanded on the idea, "What you do all day. Your hobbies, dreams, emotions, goals."

I nervously fiddled with the edge of my glasses. "I don't know," I said quietly. "I'm pretty normal."

"Elaborate, please?"

"Well." I shifted my weight in the chair, trying to think of what to say. "I like to write."

He slid his glasses down his nose, peering at me over the top of them. "Is that all?"

A shrug. "I clean, I guess."

"You like to clean?"

I nodded.  "It's relaxing."

"Ah, I see." He leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach. "What else do you do to relax?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged and gestured vaguely in the air. "When you're feeling anxious, what do you do?"

"I don't know," I said, wishing I could just leave. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and chewed it thoughtfully. "I clean a lot," I finally decided. "I like organizing and reorganizing and finding the perfect place for things. I'm also a bit of a germ freak, so I like to read about new cleaning products."

"What do you mean by germ freak?"

My mouth tipped in a frown and I suddenly gripped my bag tighter. Was that a bad thing?

"I just don't like germs. I worry about getting sick or getting other people sick."

"To what extent?"  Demitrav asked, pencil poised meaningfully above his clipboard.

"Mild, I'd say," I lied.

He paused, gaze sharpening behind his thick lenses. "Mild, huh?"

I dug my fingernails into the strap of my bag and hunched my shoulders. I could feel the hot pulse of my rapidly increasing heartbeat in my wrists, in the hollow anxiety of my chest cavity. "Yeah."

His lips curved in a smirk. "Then why aren't you sitting down?"

My cheeks colored. "I don't know," I mumbled.

"I see." Demitrav wrote something on his clipboard and sighed. "Emerson, I feel like I should take this opportunity to remind you of the confidentiality agreement. You can be honest with me. I won't judge you, and I will never tell anyone else what we discuss here."

"I don't have a lot to say. I only came here to get my boss off my back."

His eyes lit with interest and I had to bite back a groan. I knew what was coming next.

"Why did your boss send you here?" Demitrav asked predictably. He had his pen raised, ready and waiting to take notes on whatever I disclosed. It was a battle of wills: his experience against my stubbornness.

It was going to be a long session.

Unfortunately, it was fated to be a battle that I would lose. An hour later, I left the office with a prescription for anxiety medication and the business card for Dr. Mercedes Speranza, a therapist who specialized in obsessions and compulsions. I wasn't particularly keen on following through, but Demitrav urged me on my way out to give her a try. He said, at the very least, it would impress my boss.

Since, as Kincade had put it, there was nowhere to step down after copy editor, I decided to give it a shot. One session. Then I would be done with this mess.


	4. Chapter 4

Twisting the sleeve of my sweatshirt anxiously between my fingers, I kept the phone pinned between my ear and shoulder as I listened to the phone ring, jumping the moment someone answered.

"Park Psychological Services Clinic," a soft, girlish voice said.

"Hello, is this Dr. Speranza's office?" I asked before I lost my nerve.

"Yes, this is Carol, how can I help you?"

"Um." After fumbling for the card in my pocket, I flipped it over and stared at the information printed on the front. I opened my mouth to answer her, but I mentally stumbled in surprise when I noticed how close the building was to my apartment.

"Hello?" Carol asked uncertainly.

"Oh!" I jumped and nearly flushed in embarrassment, even though no one was around to see it. I hurried to regain my composure. "Sorry – uh, I was recommended to you by Dr. Demitrav, and I was wondering if you had any appointments open this week?"

"One second, please." Rapid typing, an unfeminine grunt, and more typing. "If tomorrow's not too soon, Dr. Speranza just had a cancellation for an appointment at twelve."

Fraying my sleeve almost beyond recognition, I continued to curl the fabric around my fingers as I battled internally with the decision. That was soon, almost too soon, but I supposed it would be better to just get it over with. I'd just explain to Kincade why I needed an extended lunch break and he'd probably agree.

After taking a deep, steadying breath, I said, "Tomorrow's fine."

"All right," replied Carol, oblivious to my discomfort. "Name please?"

I sighed in relief, happy that I'd cleared the hardest stage. "Emerson Lyre," I said.

"Phone number?"

I rattled it off obediently.

"Excellent," she said. "Since you're a new patient, we ask that you please bring your insurance card. We'll bill you a week after your appointment."

Forcing a smile, I clutched the business card in my hands and crossed the room to my refrigerator. "Okay, thanks," I said and neatly stuck the card underneath a yellow diamond-shaped magnet. "Goodbye."

She barely had time to utter a farewell before my thumb pressed the off button and I replaced the phone in its cradle with a shaking hand.

Exhausted, I crossed the room and dropped bonelessly onto the soft cushions of my couch. From there, I could hear Nicolas blasting swing music from across the hall, which I took as a warning not to approach him. Not that I would have anyway. I was far too clumsy in social situations to attempt a visit, even to apologize for something that had been plaguing me with guilt all day. It made me wonder whether Dr. Speranza could offer any assistance at all to someone as hopeless as me.

As though sensing my discouraged mood, Mistoffelees climbed onto the cushion next to me, his collar jingling as he nuzzled his way onto my lap. With a sigh, I gently ran my fingers through the soft fur of his stretched neck and glanced around the floor for a toy mouse to play with. I frowned a little as I noticed the corner of a book poking out from underneath my couch.

Gently pushing Mistoffelees aside, I used my shoe to nudge it out of its hiding place. Recognition sparked somewhere in the back of my mind and I realized it was the book Nicolas had been reading when he'd gotten locked out. I'd been so caught up in my anxiety and uncertainty that I hadn't even noticed he'd left it. With a thoughtful expression I got up, fetched a paper towel from the kitchen, and used it to pick it up. Obviously I had to return it at some point – the guilt would nag me beyond the grave, otherwise – and now was as good a time as any, but I had to stop and wonder: was it worth closing the door twenty-six times?

Even beyond that, there was always the possibility that Nicolas wasn't in the mood to accept visitors, particularly not me. Not after the way I'd treated him yesterday, anyway. However, he'd probably like his book back, whether it meant seeing me or not. After all, he'd been kind enough to return the clothes so promptly after borrowing them.

But I couldn't just forget about the door.

Ah, what the hell. Like I didn't already know what to do. Tucking the book under my arm and strode into the kitchen. I knew my own limits, so rather than attempting to open the door bare-handed, I tossed the paper towel, snapped on a pair of latex gloves from my pantry, and grasped the book confidently by the glossy spine. Hoping desperately that the music would drown out the creaking hinges, I opened my door and shut it behind me with a dull click. With my back braced against it, I swallowed nervously and, before I could convince myself otherwise, tossed the book shamelessly at his doorstep and knocked. Ashamed by my antics, I ducked back inside my apartment and waited, ear close to the door, for some sign of life from Nicolas.

I heard nothing. No waver in the music, no opening door, no footsteps – nothing. Worrying my lip between my teeth, I strained to listen harder and began to wonder if he'd heard the book thumping against his door. I wasn't sure which I would have preferred. I was sorely tempted to crack open the door and peer into the hallway, but if I did that, I knew I couldn't resist closing it twenty-six more times, and that would definitely tip Nicolas off.

Oh, hell. That swing music could drown out anything – I was probably safe.

Still wearing my gloves, I grasped the doorknob and twisted, swinging open the door only to gasp and stumble backwards in surprise.

Nicolas stood in my doorway, his dark hair swept behind his ears with only a hint of its usual wave, and he had the book clasped casually under his arm. "You're certainly jumpy today."

Chewing my lip, I reached up to adjust the thick, boxy frames of my glasses, if only to distract my hands from the latex gloves encasing them. "A little, I guess," I said in a soft voice and hoped he wouldn't notice anything. This situation was embarrassing enough as it was.

No such luck, of course.

Nicolas tilted his head to indicate my gloves and smiled to soften my discomfiture. "Not using those to cook, I hope."

"Oh, no," I said, quickly sliding my hands to lace behind my back. "I was just, um…"

Both of his eyebrows jumped into arches at that and Nicolas could barely control his smile as it morphed into a terribly amused smirk. "Just what?" he pressed.

Waving my hand uselessly at my side, I managed to mumble, "It's nothing."

"Uh-huh," said Nicolas, looking every inch the disbeliever. With two smooth fingertips, he tapped the slightly wrinkled cover of his paperback and caught my eyes with his. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?"

Finding that my face felt unbearably hot as his dark blue eyes scorched into mine, I looked at the floor and lied. "No."

I could practically feel Nicolas staring at me and it made heat prickle down my neck and creep into my cheeks. When I finally had the courage to look back, he was smiling brightly, his eyes somehow softer than before, and he nodded as he said, "Thank you, Em."

My eyes widened in surprise. "You're welcome," I breathed, scarcely able to believe that he'd forgiven me so quickly for the incident yesterday evening, and I hesitantly allowed myself to smile.

Humming softly in response, he braced his shoulder against the doorframe and absently carded his fingers through his bangs. "So, how was work today?"

I tried to look nonchalant and shrugged as I muttered, "It went okay, I guess."

"You guess?" he repeated, staring at me with a surprisingly intent expression.

Guardedly, I admitted, "It could have been better."

"I see." He shifted, the fabric of his cotton shirt catching briefly against a splinter in the wooden doorframe, and a hesitant expression slowly sprawled across his face. "Sorry, then."

"It's fine," I assured him and paused to draw in a quick, comforting breath. "Listen, Nicolas, I—" My words abruptly fell away as three rapid, loud thumps took me by surprise. Mrs. Norton must have thought Nicolas's music was a bit too loud.

"I'd better go take care of that," Nicolas said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Oh," I said, not knowing how else to respond, and wondered why I suddenly felt so disappointed.

"Thanks again for the book, Em," said Nicolas with a quirk of his lips. His feet scuffed against the floor as he retreated into the hallway. "I was going crazy looking for it."

I curled my fingers absently into my pocket, gloves and all. "No problem."

With a nod, Nicolas smiled just that much brighter and turned to disappear into his apartment. I watched him go with a decidedly warm, accomplished feeling stirring in my gut, and I smiled at his back even though he couldn't see it.

Maybe I could handle this after all.

* * *

As usual, I opted to walk to work in the morning. The sidewalks were refreshingly clean for once and I kept my hands in my pockets, shielding them from the wind. Despite the sharpness of the fall air, it was actually a fairly nice walk.

At lunch, I unwrapped my sandwich and ate it as I hoofed it over to the Park Psychological Services Clinic. I spent a good five minutes panicking privately on Dr. Speranza's office doorstep before I stretched the abused sleeve of my jacket past my fingertips and opened and shut the door. I stood with my back to it for a moment, taking deep breaths to calm my racing heart and chase away the ravaging urge to continue closing it. With clumsy steps, I made my way over to the reception desk. There was a small indoor window overlooking a ledge with a sign-in sheet on it. The window was closed, so I jotted my name down on the sheet and then stood by a chair to wait. 

After what felt like ages, the window slid open and a petite woman spun the sign-in sheet around to look at it.

"Emerson Lyre?" she called.

"Yes?"

She ducked out of sight for a moment and reappeared with a clipboard and a stack of papers, which she slid across the ledge to me. "I need you to fill out these forms."

Oh, great. More forms. I reached over and took the clipboard, noting that it was a questionnaire similar to the one I'd filled out in Dr. Demitrav's office. At least I knew all the answers already. I turned away to write down my information.

"I'll need your insurance card, too," the receptionist said from behind me.

"Oh, right." I juggled the clipboard while I fished it out of my bag and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"No problem." I hung out by the window and waited for her to finish, checking little boxes next to questions like "are you a worry-wart?", which was such an understatement I actually laughed. When she handed me my card back, I stuffed it back in my wallet and carried my clipboard to a corner where I pointedly did not sit in any chairs.

The questionnaire seemed to go on forever. Please rate this, please rate that. It felt longer than Dr. Demitrav's.

"Emerson?"

There was a pair of pointed, dark green pumps in front of me. Slowly looking up, I took in the long brown skirt and satin blouse with a deepening sense of discomfort. Dr. Speranza was taller than me, no doubt thanks to the heels, and her dark brown hair fell into her tan face with snakelike veins of golden highlights weaving their way throughout. She had striking, golden eyes that almost looked yellow. After the clean-cut, gray-haired countenance of Demitrav, this was the last thing I'd been expecting.

Not to mention I was also utter crap with women.

 "Um," I said, staring.

"I'm Mercedes Speranza," she introduced herself with a brief, friendly grin. She was clutching a notebook to her chest so she thankfully didn't extend her hand for a handshake. "Nice to meet you. You can finish the surveys in my office, if you'd like."

"Er, okay. Nice to meet you, too."

"Great. You can just follow me," she said.

We walked down a flight of stairs to a hallway of doors. It was like a comic version of a nightmare for me. She pushed open the first door on the left and graciously held it open for me.

"Have a seat," Speranza said warmly, sitting in one of the only two chairs in the room.

It was nothing like Kincade or Demitrav's office. It was painted a very pale pink with a few paintings on the wall. There was a glass table in the corner with a fake potted plant on top of it and a cabinet on the opposite wall.

"What's that?" I said, pointing to the cabinet.

"That has a camera in it. We record patients sometimes." At my horrified expression, she smiled and added, "We require written consent before we're allowed to take video or audio, of course."

"Right." I shifted the clipboard with the endless questionnaires so I could continue filling them out.

Speranza removed her pen from behind her ear and clicked it, her sunny gaze taking in my every move. "Are you sure you don't want to have a seat?"

"Um. I don't really like chairs," I hedged.

She nodded and smiled. "Okay, that's fine." Her pen stopped clicking and she bent to scribble a few lines in her notebook.

I leaned forward curiously. "What are you writing?"

"Just notes about the session," she reassured me.

I wasn't reassured.

But I said, "Okay," easily enough and put my mind to finishing the paperwork. When I finally finished, she took it from me and flipped through it, keeping her face carefully blank the entire time.

I went for a lame attempt at humor. "So what do you think? Am I crazy?"

"No," she said, still studying the questionnaires. "But I do have some ideas as to what to talk about."

It turned into the same song and dance I'd gone through with Demitrav. We won't spill your secrets, just how crazy _are_ you, and what was your childhood like. The only difference was when she asked me to sign a consent form for exposure therapy.

I was due back at work in fifteen minutes, so I signed off on it with minimal fussing and left.

* * *

The end of the day. Peace. I'd gotten back to work with maybe five seconds to spare and had nitpicked extraneous commas until I thought my brain was going to explode.

Finally standing outside my apartment, I had just begun fumbling for my keys, standing innocuously at my door, when I heard footsteps pounding up the stairwell. Suspicious, I swiveled my head to find a redhead, slumped over and out of breath, standing with her hands braced against her knees. I stared at her for what felt like a full minute before I rediscovered my wits.

"Hello?" I ventured.

Her fiery head snapped up at the sound of my voice and her eyes sought out mine, latching on and nearly blinding me with their brightness. With a wavering smile, she straightened and closed the distance between us. "Mr. Lyre!"

Oh, God, she knew my name. Was she a stalker? She looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place her face.

I pressed my back against my door and made no effort to hide my distrust. "Can I help you?"

With an audible gulp, she seemed to pause and steel herself before thrusting out her hand, palm up, to reveal a diskette pinched between her index and middle fingers with the name _Emerson Lyre_ written clearly across the label in my own familiar script.

I reached toward it with a shaking hand, recognizing it as the backup disk for most of, if not all, of the articles I was editing. "How did you get that?" I demanded.

Lowering her head to face the ground, eyes shielded by her bright red hair, she admitted in a strangled voice, "I stole it."

"You—you _stole_ it?"

"Yes," she said, nearly bending double as she hunched her shoulders and tried to sink into the carpet.

I kept staring. This was better than being stalked and murdered, but still pretty damn weird. "Then why the hell are you returning it?"

"Because Demitrav told me to," she said and suddenly raised her head to look me in the eyes.

Mind whirling with sudden recognition, I placed her in my memory as the girl I'd noticed at Demitrav's office. "You're that girl—"

"I'm a woman, not a child," she corrected me with sudden bravery.

Okay, so she was female _and_ a feminist. Good to know.

"You must have taken it from me when we passed in the hall," I guessed.

She nodded.

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't know." Ashamed, her eyes darted to the wall, the ceiling, the floor, suddenly anywhere but my face. "I couldn't stop myself. It's a problem." Abruptly, her shoulders began to shake, and I was terrified to think that she might have started crying.

Crying females were not my forte. Neither were crying males, crying transpeople, or crying ungendered aliens. "It's okay, I guess. Please don't cry."

"Oh, thank God." She straightened, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and then held out the diskette. "So do you want this back?"

"Er, yes, thank you." I accepted it almost daintily, covering my hand with my sleeve as always. I hurriedly tucked it into my pocket so I wouldn't have to think about it. I was about to duck into my apartment and hide when I realized not everything had been explained. "How did you know my name?"

"You're like my idol," she confessed.

A point in the stalker category. I gaped. "Pardon?"

"I followed your work when you were a reporter. I'm so excited you're working with me now."

"Working with you?"

"Oh, right!" She beamed at me. "I guess we haven't met yet. I'm Sheridan Taylor, Entertainment and Culture."

So that was why she'd been seeing an in-network psychiatrist. Made sense. I was still puzzling over something non-awkward to say when the sound of a door opening saved me. 

Glancing over Sheridan's shoulder, I noticed Nicolas emerging from his door, dressed in pressed black slacks and a soft-looking cream-colored sweater. He paused with his key in the lock, eyes widening in bewilderment and slow recognition as they landed on Sheridan.

"Sherry?"

Sheridan whirled around as she heard her name, blinking in confusion to match my neighbor's. "Nicolas?"

Nicolas's handsome face split in a grin. "It _is_ you," he said, sounding awed. Hurriedly, he finished locking his door and stuffed his key in his pocket, not even sparing me a hello as he breezed by me to vigorously shake Sheridan's hand. A heavy feeling sparked in the pit of my stomach. How was it that other people exchanged touches so casually? So easily?

Oblivious to my darkening mood, Nicolas carried on with Sheridan. "I haven't seen you since you did that article on the restaurant! What brings you here?"

"Oh, um." She tilted her head to indicate me, red hair sliding into her face as she did so. Absently, she tucked the strands behind her ear and gushed, "I'm visiting Emerson. We work together at the newspaper, actually. I was just dropping off some papers for him to edit."

"How kind," acknowledged Nicolas with a smile. "So, how have you been?"

I snorted and tuned out Sheridan's response as best I could, choosing instead to study her as she spoke. Her pale mouth was flapping eagerly and she gesticulated with her hands, practically overwhelming the hallway with her presence, and I decided then that I would never understand her. Why she had no problem explaining her problem to me, someone she claimed to idolize, but had to lie like a rug in the face of someone she'd only met once, I would never comprehend.

Frowning, I turned my attention away from her and slowly delved my hand into my pocket, tightening my fingers around the disk that Sheridan had returned to me only moments ago. The fact that I hadn't even noticed its absence worried me greatly, and I bit my lip as I considered just how much I'd ignored work recently. In between slamming doors and cleaning the apartment and accidentally insulting Nicolas, I'd barely touched the projects I studiously brought home each night.

Jesus. My habits really were interfering with my work. Maybe this exposure therapy with Speranza would be a good thing.

Nicolas suddenly snapped his fingers in front of my face, startling me back into reality.

I blinked. "Huh?"

A quirky grin swept over his features. "I said, you look kind of spacey today. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just fine. I was just—" I glanced down at my hand, still in my pocket, and pulled a guilty face "—thinking about how much work I have to do tonight."

"Sorry to hear that, kid." A flutter in his eyelashes and a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth told me that he had more to say on the subject, but he wisely changed his mind and masterfully steered the conversation in a new direction. "But you know, Sherry isn't the only reason I came out here."

Surprised that he'd mention that in front of her, I swept my gaze from side to side, shocked to discover that she'd left while I'd been busy zoning out. Embarrassed, I returned my gaze to Nicolas and asked, "It's not?"

"Nope," he said with a mysterious sort of smile. "Your sister dropped by earlier. I heard her knocking, so I came out and we talked for a while. She left this for you." Thrusting a folded piece of crisp, white notebook paper into my hands, he arched both eyebrows and slowly permitted his smile to curl into a lazy grin. "Cute kid, by the way."

With a faint groan, I accepted the paper and pulled on a sour look at the mention of my sister's fiendish child. "Yeah, if you like muddy things with sticky hands," I muttered as I unfolded the note and swiftly scanned the sloping, feminine script for important details. "By the way," I paused to comment between paragraphs, "do you have a habit of interrogating all of my visitors?"

"They're a rare sight. I try to enjoy them when I can," Nicolas teased.

I snorted at the mischievous flash in his blue eyes. "Perhaps you should consider finding some visitors of your own."

Before he could stop himself, all of his breath left in him in a loud, whistling laugh that echoed against the off-white hallway walls. At least he had the decency to look sheepish afterwards, ducking his head as he murmured in response, "Perhaps." Keeping his gaze steadily locked on my face, he leaned against the wall and casually crossed his arms. "So what's it say?"

I glanced back down at the slip of paper in my hands and immediately crumpled it with a noise of disgust. "Not that it's any of your business," I began snappishly, "but she wants me to babysit for her on Sunday."

He eyed the ruined note with an air of wary concern. "What's so bad about that?"

"Children are disgusting," I stated rather matter-of-factly.

"I think they're cute."

"Who are you kidding?" I scowled. "They're always sick, and they don't wash their hands, and they play in the mud every chance they get. How much dirtier can you be?"

With a soft chuckle, he pushed away from the wall and unfolded his arms. "Okay, so maybe I can understand why _you_ don't like kids." He paused and studied me with a half-serious expression. "Does that mean you'll say no?"

"Of course it means I'll say no," I snorted.

"Shame," said Nicolas with a shake of his head. "Your sister seemed like she could really use the help."

I scoffed. "Harper needs to become more self-sufficient, anyway. It's not my problem."

Nicolas abruptly burst into laughter.

I made a face. "What's so funny?"

He curled his fingers over his mouth to smother a sheepish smile. "Nothing. It's just, is her name really Harper?"

"Yes," I said, rolling my eyes impatiently. "Our parents were vicious in their pursuit of embarrassing names. I don't see why that's so amusing."

"Are you kidding? That's funny on at least three levels."

"Three?" I repeated incredulously.

"Yes, three," he said with an outrageous grin. "Trust me."

"Whatever you say." I scrabbled behind me with my key to unlock my door, and then pulled my sleeve over my hand to grip the knob. Even I was too polite to turn my back on someone mid-conversation. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"You really need to get a sense of humor, Em."

"I have a sense of humor, thank you."

"If you do, it's very limited," he noted.

I pulled a mock-thoughtful expression. "I seem to recall making a joke on Wednesday night."

"Exactly," he crowed. "You made _one_ joke, and that was two days ago. How does that amount to a sense of humor?"

"It…" I pursed my lips, eyes drifting absently to Nicolas's wristwatch, and abruptly decided that I simply didn't have enough time for this. "It just does. Now, if you don't mind, I have a lot of things to finish before tomorrow."

Curiously, Nicolas shifted his weight towards me and narrowed his eyes in interest. "And what's going on tomorrow?"

I sighed, kicking myself internally for letting that slip. "Nothing," I insisted in an impatient, tired tone.

"The same kind of nothing that you did yesterday?"

I growled a warning through my teeth, "Nicolas."

Lifting his hands in a placating manner, he smiled and waved his fingers in a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone." And with that, he slid back through his doorway and disappeared into the rectangle of light with the creak of his door.

I let out a deep, whistling breath and fixed my eyes on the ceiling. Now that I'd begun socializing with people, albeit in limited amounts, I really wished I hadn't. I was no closer to understanding them than when I started.

Across the hall, Nicolas turned his swing music all the way up, barraging the rest of the apartment complex with his energetic notes. Before I knew it, a smile had crept across my face, and I couldn't dismiss it no matter how hard I tried.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, I walked down to the front lobby to wait for Speranza and our scheduled exposure therapy session. Apparently, my exposure therapy couldn't take place in her office, so we were going on a bit of a field trip. I'd been up since six, cleaning and fussing indecisively over my wardrobe, and I'd eventually settled on a warm brown sweater and khaki pants. I was early for once, barely fifteen minutes ahead, and I shuffled aimlessly around the lobby until I became too fidgety and moved to wait outside. Almost immediately, I heard a car horn and turned to find a tinted window rolling down to reveal Speranza.

My stomach clenched at the sight of her polished black car. "Um, Dr. Speranza," I began somewhat uncertainly, "I should probably warn you that I'm not very comfortable in cars."

Not very comfortable, imagining I'd run over bodies, same difference.

Tipping down her sunglasses to peer over the edges, Speranza gave me a long, considering look and asked, "Motion sickness?"

If only.

"Not exactly," I said.

"Anything that could possibly ruin the upholstery?"

"Er, no."

"Then hop in!" She smiled at me brightly and reached over to push open the passenger door.

With a flip of her glossy hair, Speranza gave me a friendly look that I assumed was supposed to be reassuring and said, "If you get too anxious, we'll end the session."

Scrubbing a hand exhaustedly through my hair, I climbed into the car and buckled my seatbelt. "Okay, I'll try it. Where are we going?"

"Trader Joe's," she said with a tiny, curling grin that made me incredibly nervous.

"Why are we going to a grocery store?"

She shrugged, yellow eyes watching me intently as I closed the door. "To buy a few things. I told you this was going to be an unconventional session, didn't I?"

"I suppose so," I grunted, slamming the door again.

She looked over with interest. "What are you doing?"

Head lowered, I mumbled, "Closing the door," and slammed it shut again. And again. And—

"Didn't it close the first time?" she asked.

"Not properly."

"Interesting," murmured Speranza. Her eyes never left my side of the car, always studying my actions, and when I finally finished, she arched an elegant eyebrow and asked, "Twenty-six times?"

"Yes," I admitted, fighting back a flush.

"Just car doors?"

"No. My apartment. Sometimes doors at works. Doors that need to be closed for security reasons." It almost sounded sane if I put it that way.

She nodded swiftly and started the engine. "Okay, then. Let's get going."

I felt my palms begin to itch as she pulled away from the curb. "Wait, wait a minute," I stammered and fumbled a bit clumsily for the 'lock' button. "Is your door locked?"

"It is," she averred and urged the car into traffic.

"Check it, please?"

"It's locked," she assured me, sparing it a glance to make sure.

Even though I could see the button was depressed, I still worried that it could go down further. Since it didn't seem like Speranza knew what I was getting at, I waited until she slowed to a halt in the inevitable hellacious traffic and then swiftly reached over her and clicked the lock button.

"Pity you hate cars," she murmured as I moved away.

"What?"

Without another word, she threw the car into gear and rolled down the street once the light turned green. To my surprise and dismay, she reached over and unlocked her door. "I said, it's a pity that you hate cars."

" _Why would you do that_?"

"Exposure therapy, remember?"

"This is harassment," I said.

"You signed the consent form," she reminded me gently. "The point of exposure therapy is to do things you're not comfortable with. Then when it's over you can see that not locking a door doesn't mean you'll die in a fiery crash. It's supposed to curb your compulsions."

When she put it like that, it did sound kind of helpful. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest to keep myself from reaching over to lock her door again, wondering what else she had in store for me today. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to know.

"Um, you're kind of close to the car on this side," I said once we'd finally arrived at the store and she'd parked. I was peering out the window, nearly smudging the glass with my nose. "You should back up and do it again."

"Exposure therapy," she said.

"No," I said, barely daring to open my door far enough to glimpse at the asphalt. "I really think I'm going to hit it if I open the door."

"If you hit it, I'll leave a note."

I glanced longingly at the wide gap between Speranza's door and the next car over. "I'd much rather crawl over to your side."

"Just give it a try?"

I sighed and inched my door open. It hit the other car with a soft tap before it was wide enough for me to crawl out. I turned to glare at her. "I told you so."

"That's okay," she said, lifting up her sunglasses to perch just above her dark chestnut bangs. She walked over to my side and knelt to inspect the other car's door. "You didn't leave a mark."

I somehow shimmied out of the car and shut the door. There wasn't enough room for me to shut it the other twenty-five times, so I crouched to inspect the paint alongside her. "Are you sure?" I asked. Panic was fluttering in my chest. I didn't want to have to pay for a new car door. "I think there's a scratch."

"I honestly don't see anything," she said, rising to her feet. She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder and motioned to the store. "Come on, let's keep going."

After slipping my hand inside my sleeve, I ran my hand along the door and bit my lip. "But what if I dented it?"

"Emerson, if you dented it, I'd be the one whose license they'd take down. You're okay. We have a lot to do today, so we'd better get going."

Reluctantly, I got to my feet and gave the door one last lingering look before I allowed myself to be ushered into Trader Joe's. Speranza picked up a basket and dropped her purse into it.

"So how long would you have stayed out there if I'd let you?" she asked while we were wandering along the bread aisle.

"I don't know."

She nodded, swinging the basket. "Has it happened before?"

"Sometimes," I said. "Like I told you, I don't drive anymore."

Speranza dug through her purse to find a pen and a pocket-sized notebook. Keeping one eye on me, she began to take notes. "How long have you spent on that in the past, then?"

"Half an hour or so."

She clicked her pen and asked, "And you spend how long closing doors?"

The worst question. I frowned and looked away. "That's not really any of your business."

Somehow, Speranza managed to keep up an expression of good humor. "As your therapist, I certainly think it is. If you don't want to tell me, that's another thing entirely."

I stood by a package of whole grain bread, leaning forward to inspect it even though I didn't plan to buy it. "You've already seen an example of it, haven't you?"

"Fair enough. Do you have a comfort food?"

Caught off guard by the sudden subject change, I turned to gawk at her and said, "Comfort food?"

"Comfort food," she repeated, allowing her mouth to curl in a smile. "Something that makes you feel better about things. Mine is mint chocolate chip ice cream."

Wary of giving her any more information than I had to, I mumbled, "I don't think I have one of those."

"Yes, you do. Think harder. It doesn't have to be food, either," she said, steadily meeting my gaze. "Just something that makes you feel better about life."

"Tea?" I offered weakly.

Smirking triumphantly, she pressed, "What kind?"

"I only drink orange spice," I told her.

"Orange spice tea it is." Seeming to enjoy this more than any normal person would, she spun and started walking in the direction of the tea. I followed at a much more sedate pace, privately wondering whether or not this ridiculous excursion actually had a point other than making me want to die.

When I turned the corner, I was met by Dr. Speranza holding a small box in the air. "Is this it?"

It was. My brand and everything. "Yup."

"Excellent." She dropped it into the box and pointed toward the checkout. "We're all done here."

I dragged my heels as I followed behind her. She set the basket on the counter and beamed at me like we'd just accomplished something very exciting, rather than picking out a box of tea.

"Is this all for you today?" the cashier – Bryan, according to his nametag – asked far too perkily.

I remained silent. Speranza nodded.

Bryan scanned the barcode and hit a button on the register. "Your total comes to three dollars and twelve cents."

Speranza grabbed my arm and deposited a collection of bills and coins in the palm of my hand. "Pay in exact change," she instructed.

Somehow, I resisted the urge to throw back the money. Preferably in her face. As it was, I barely kept myself from dropping it on the floor. When I shopped, I used credit or debit only to avoid this exact situation. "Why?"

She gave me a look that I was quickly beginning to recognize as the "exposure therapy" face.       

"Fine," I grunted and reluctantly began to leaf through the money. My hands felt itchy. The money was filthy.

"And you can only count it once," she added.

"What?" For the second time, I nearly dropping the change all over the floor. "But that's not fair."

"Just give it a shot," she urged.

"Fine," I said again, considerably irritated. Lips pressed together in a tight frown, I counted out the change, only once and _very_ carefully. I was feeling rather accomplished when I reached out to hand it to Bryan, but then I started to wonder if that had been a nickel or a dime or if I'd gotten the total wrong.

"Go on," Speranza said softly.

I did. I dumped the filthy change into Bryan's hand and held my arm away from my body, worried that I would contaminate my clothing. I needed some Purell.

Ignoring the exchange, Bryan accepted the money, counted it, and dropped it into his cash drawer with little more than a second glance. "Paper or plastic?"

"Um, that's okay, I don't need a bag," I said quickly, desperate to leave, and clutched the tea in a white-knuckled grip with my non-dirty hand.

Once we were outside, Speranza flipped her sunglasses back down and grinned at me. "That was pretty good, Emerson. How are you feeling?"

"Like I need to cut my hand off."

"I came prepared. I've got some Purell in the car."

"Thank God."

Inside the car, I slathered both arms up to my elbows in Purell, and then did it again just to be safe. Speranza took the bottle back and tossed it in the glove compartment. When she turned the car on and pulled out of the parking space, she turned back toward my apartment, but I was surprised and a little afraid when she passed it.

"You know I live back there, right?"

"Yup. We're getting some lunch first."

I hesitated. Food prepared by unknown hands? She had to know I wouldn't be okay with that.

"Where?" I asked warily, just in case it was one of the few places I was okay with. I was very comfortable with a café next to my old newspaper building, where I'd befriended the cook to the point where I trusted him with my food. That cook and my mother were the only other people I let prepare my food.

Well. Them and Nicolas, as of recently. 

"Just this little Italian place I know.  It's not very popular, but I hear it's expanding soon."

A hole in the wall Italian joint in New York City. Exactly what I needed.

I slumped in my seat, enduring the stop and start traffic until we reached the restaurant. I kept my eyes on the floor so I wouldn't have the opportunity to find a million things to freak myself out about. We were seated after a five minute wait at a checkered table in the corner. I dipped my napkin in my water glass and used it to wipe down the menu before I picked it up.

"This is all in Italian," I said dumbly.

"In case my name didn't give it away, I'm Italian," Speranza said with a smirk. "I'll order for us."

 It was on the tip of my tongue to complain, but then she gave me the "exposure therapy" look again and I gave in. Putting the menu face-down on the table, I leaned back in my chair and waited for the day to end. Speranza tried to make small talk during the twenty minutes it took for our food to arrive, but I ignored her.

When the waitress put down the food, all I could do was stare. It looked breaded and squiggly and I had no idea what it had been in its previous life.

"What the hell is this?"

"Calamari," she responded and cheerfully speared a piece with her fork. "It's good."

With a distrustful look, I experimentally poked a particularly wiggly piece with my knife. "I don't trust it."

"Just try it," she insisted, pushing a lemon slice onto my plate. "Live a little."

"It looks diseased," I argued weakly.

"I'm eating it and I'm fine."

I bit off a reply as our waitress returned.

"Does everything taste okay?" she asked with a sweet smile.

"It's fine," I said, looking down at the plate of whatever the hell it was. Calamari. I wasn't going to it eat. When I got home I'd just nuke some pasta in the microwave and sit back with a glass of filtered water. Much safer.

The waitress must have detected some of the unhappiness in my voice, because she leaned closer and said, "Is there a problem with your calamari, sir?"

I blanched. "No, it's fine, I just—"

"He doesn't like it," Speranza put in unhelpfully.

"Oh?" The waitress looked surprised. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Can I bring you another appetizer? Is there something wrong in particular?"

" _Nothing_ ," I hissed, frantically trying to ignore the heavy sensation of panic settling in my chest. "I just—"

"Don't know," Speranza said, grinning that devilish smile again. "He won't say."

Looking concerned, she dug her hands into her apron pockets and said, "I'll be right back, hold on one moment."

"No, really, that's okay. I just want to—"

 "Thanks for your help," interrupted Speranza.

— _to_ _die_ , I finished mentally. That's what I wanted to do. I wanted to crawl under the table and die, right there, of embarrassment and mortification, all because of this crazy woman I'd hired to _torture_ me for a day.

"Okay, just a second." With her smile firmly back in place, the waitress bowed her head and then sprinted for the kitchen.

I leaned across the table to hiss at Speranza, "Why the hell did you do that?"

"To see what you'd do," she responded reasonably. "I'm still gathering information and observations to help me understand your condition."

I glared over the top of my glasses, unsure of how menacing plain brown eyes could be but hoping they bordered somewhere near portentously looming. "Well, are you done yet? Because this is incredibly stressful, and I'm just not made for this sort of situation."

"Almost." With the corners of her lips tugging into an almost-smirk, she nodded to indicate something behind me. "There's the cook."

"Oh, great," I muttered and twisted around to find a familiar-looking Italian striding towards our table, wiping his hands on a surprisingly clean apron. I nearly had a heart attack. "Oh, my God."

"Huh?" Speranza clearly hadn't been expecting that.

"That's Nicolas." I sounded breathless. Was it normal to sound so breathless about your neighbor?

Squinting at the chef in confusion, she asked, "Who is Nicolas?"

"My neighbor." I pushed my chair back with a slight scrape and rose to my feet, unable to keep a small smile from my face. "Nicolas, I had no idea this was your restaurant!"

"Emerson," he said me after a moment of startled hesitation, obviously as surprised as I was. He reached out to clasp my shoulder in greeting, and then seemed to think better of it and pulled back. "Really? Because it clearly says _Nico's_ on the front of the building, you know."

"Oh?" I faltered, embarrassed, and I knew I was blushing. "I was sort of distracted; I didn't notice."

"That's okay," he reassured me, still grinning. I was vaguely aware of Dr. Speranza studying us from across the table, silently. "So, what's this I hear about you hating my food?"

Throwing my hands up in defense, I shook my head emphatically, "I don't hate it—"

"He refused to eat it," Speranza piped up as she was apparently wont to do.

I shot her a glare through my bangs, continuing in an appropriately discomfited tone to Nicolas, "—I just didn't trust it because I didn't know who prepared it."

Nicolas's eyes fell on Speranza, noticing her for apparently the first time. "Hey, Emerson," he prompted me quietly. "It's rude not to introduce us."

"Oh. Um." With a slightly panicked expression, I jerked my thumb in her direction and jumped on the situation before she could present herself as my therapist. I wasn't really ready for my neighbor to know the extent of my crazy. "This is Mercedes Speranza."

Elegantly, she extended her hand to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you..." She paused purposely, one eyebrow arched in question.

"Nico Bianchetti," he supplied helpfully. "Nice to meet you, too."

"Nico?" she repeated. "But Emerson calls you Nicolas."

Smiling faintly, he said, "Emerson's always gone by the name on my mailbox, I think. I'd introduce myself as Nicolas, but it's kind of awkward to give people a name that doesn't match the restaurant, you know?"

She nodded and they firmly shook hands. "Completely understandable."

"Yeah," he said in a dismissive tone and abruptly returned his attention to me. "So, I hear you don't like my cooking."

"Huh?"

Looking amused, he said, "The calamari?"

"Oh." I was definitely blushing again. "Uh, no, it's fine."

"Really?" He didn't look very convinced.

"Yeah." Tilting my head just enough that I didn't have to worry about Speranza's searching gaze, I offered Nicolas a small, friendly smile and said, "Now that I know you made it, it's fine. I trust your cooking."

"Heh, I guess that makes sense." He waved in lieu of the friendly shoulder touch I could see he wanted to give. "In that case, I'll see you later, okay, Em?"

"Yeah, okay," I agreed, waving slightly. "Bye, Nicolas."

"See ya," he called over his shoulder before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Once Nicolas left, Speranza studied me speculatively and murmured, "So, is he just a friend?"

My heart lodged in my throat. "What else would he be?"

"A boyfriend," she drawled, curling her fingers across her mouth to hide what was no doubt an amused smile. "Or perhaps a relative."

"I…" My mouth worked soundlessly as I searched my brain for an appropriate definition. "I guess we're friends."

Thankfully, that was the end of the conversation.

The rest of the meal consisted of idyllic silence. I tried the calamari and found it was better in the mysterious red sauce they'd given me than with the lemon Speranza had suggested, and she watched me with carefully guarded eyes.

When it was over, we split the check after some argument – discounted, thanks to Nicolas – and she agreed to take me back to my apartment complex. I'd never been so relieved to step inside those revolving glass doors before in my life.

Mistoffelees greeted me enthusiastically once I had finished with the door, lacing himself repeatedly through my legs until I caved and lavished him with food, water, and attention. Once he was thoroughly gratified, purring on the living room floor, I washed my hands twice and went about doing my chores as usual, stopping only occasionally to wonder what Speranza would have to say about it, what questions she would ask, and whether or not it was normal. It gave me a headache.

Hours later, I finally finished and went to deposit my trash bags in the dumpster, and I unexpectedly ran into Nicolas for the second time that day.

Leaning his shoulder against the wall in the hallway, Nicolas crossed his arms and pinned me uncomfortably beneath the weight of his stare. "You never told me you had a girlfriend."

"I don't," I said quietly and scuffed the toe of my shoe against the ugly hallway carpet, attempting to ignore the way his eyes made the back of my neck itch. Sensing a long conversation coming, I dropped the trash bags on either side of me and plucked at the rubber gloves I was wearing.

"Then who was that?" he asked, striking blue eyes squinted to match his rigid frown.

With an internal wince, I wondered if I could veritably play dumb. "Huh?"

"At the restaurant," clarified Nicolas with a glare.

I could feel my cheeks heating in an undeniable blush and ducked my head to hide the evidence. "Nobody," I muttered.

"You're lying."

"Am not."

"You're _blushing_ ," he pointed out.

"Well, it's embarrassing," I hissed, finally snapping my head up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and disastrous for unknown reasons and it made me flinch just to look at them.

"Look, Em, a girlfriend is nothing to be ashamed of," he said eventually, the harsh lines of his face softening into something akin to sympathy. "I just figured—"

"She's _not_ my girlfriend," I interrupted, bristling.

With a dubious glance, he asked, "Then what is she?"

I sucked in a long, steadying breath and briefly closed my eyes. When I opened them, I looked straight at him and finally spat out the one phrase I'd been avoiding all week.

"She's my therapist."


	6. Chapter 6

"She's your _what_?"

Oh, God, this was going to take a long time. I peeled off my gloves, tossed them on top of the trash bags, and said, "My therapist."

Nicolas stepped in front of me to catch my gaze, drawing my attention to the pinched, hurt expression scrawled across his usually soft features. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Er, well. I didn't think—I mean. I didn't," I stuttered, certain I was blushing as I stumbled hopelessly over my words. I gestured vaguely in the air, unable to capture the proper terms, which was rather pathetic considering my career of choice. "You know," I finished somewhat pathetically.

"No, I don't know," he said with a dark look.

I gathered my courage. "It's not like I have an obligation to tell you my personal information. And besides, it's embarrassing."

"How is it embarrassing that you're getting help?" Nicolas demanded. Judging by the tone of his voice, he was perilously close to the edge of complete exasperation. "That's a good thing."

"Are you implying that I _need_ help?" I snapped.

"No." Catching my dubious look, he heaved a sigh. "I'm not implying anything, Em. I mean, not to sound rude, but it's always been obvious."

I gritted my teeth and narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean, obvious?"

"Emerson, I watch you slam your door twenty-six times every time you enter or leave this apartment," he murmured, and the harsh lines around his face gradually began to soften. "I've seen you do those—whatever you call them. Rituals."

"They're not rituals," I lied.

"Then what are they?"

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, the phone rang inside my apartment. Secretly thankful for the interruption, I stammered, "Er, sorry. Hold on a minute."

Nicolas offered no reply, but he also made no move to stop me. I dashed into my apartment and snatched up the phone on the third ring, pressing it between my ear and shoulder. "Hello?" I asked, turning to head back into the hallway, but paused when I saw that Nicolas had already followed me inside. "What are you doing in here?"

Mouth drawn in a heavy frown, Nicolas folded his arms across his chest and leaned pointedly against the frame of my door. "We're not done talking yet."

"Who's there, Emerson? Is everything okay?"

I recognized my sister's voice immediately. "Oh, Harper. Um." I nervously adjusted my glasses, only half-concentrating on her as I sent nervous glances in my neighbor's direction. "Don't worry about it, it's just Nicolas."

Her voice dropped slyly, and I could just picture her perking up, bright-eyed and inquisitive. "Is he that cute guy across the hall from you?"

"Er, yes, I suppose so," I said, frowning as Nicolas began trailing me around the apartment. I knocked his hand away from a picture frame and covered the phone receiver to hiss, "Don't touch anything."

"Oh, wonderful!" Harper chattered obliviously into my ear. "Did he deliver my note? I bet he did and you just ignored it. Oh, well. Tell your friend thanks anyway."

"How'd you know we're friends?" I muttered, risking a glance at Nicolas as he gave up trying to eavesdrop on my conversation and sat on the couch to play with Mistoffelees.

"I asked, of cour—" she trailed off abruptly, and I caught the distinct sound of a thump followed by a young child's wailing in the background. "Oh, crap. I can't believe she ran into the sliding glass door again," Harper muttered, and my ears were assaulted by fuzzy static – probably the phone rubbing against her shirt – and her voice in the background as she soothed her daughter. "Hold on. It's okay, honey, Mommy's right here."

I barely suppressed a groan. "Is that Langley?"

She snorted. "No, I just like to keep random children around the house. Of course it is!"

Wincing, I muttered, "Pardon my wishful thinking."

"I'll forgive you just this once. Anyway, I think I should tell you how cute and well-behaved Langley has been lately."

I growled, "Harper, I'm not babysitting for you, okay?"

She sounded exasperated. "I hate to break it to you, Emerson, but you are."

"What? _Why_?"

"Because Jordan is still overseas."

"So give her to Mom and Dad," I mumbled, irritably pinching my nose between my thumb and forefinger. From the corner of my eye, I caught Nicolas sliding from the couch. With a small sigh, I grabbed a can of Lysol from the counter and followed him, just in case he decided to ignore my previous instructions.

"They spoil her," Harper whined into my ear.

"Then hire a professional," I snapped, slapping Nicolas's hand away from a fern in the corner and mouthing the words, _I said don't touch anything_. He merely smirked and sidestepped me to admire the knickknack-adorned shelf over my sink.

My sister continued unhappily. "We don't have the money for that."

"Harper, you _know_ Mom and Dad would pay for it," I said, somewhat harsher than I would have otherwise, because Nicolas was obviously either deaf or stupid, and _would not_ get away from my mother's pewter figurines.

"Emerson, I've been supporting myself for the past eight years now," Harper rambled on, oblivious to my hassle. "I'm not going to ask them to pay for my babysitter."

"Well, that's what you get for marrying someone with a death wish," I snorted. Nicolas glanced up at this, eyebrows raised inquisitively, but I waved him away. Rolling his eyes, he drifted off to inspect a collection of vases near the windowsill.

"Jordan doesn't have a death wish," Harper defended herself adamantly.

"Of course he does. He's in the military, isn't he?"

"Don't mock my husband."

I frowned as I leaned against the wall next to my neighbor, watching him with critical eyes. He may have been a genius with a gnocchi board, but I didn't trust him around any particularly delicate objects, especially not if they belonged to _me_. "Fine," I muttered into the phone. "But I still don't like him."

"I know," she replied, sounding crestfallen.

There was an awkward silence during which I narrowly prevented Nicolas from breaking a Portland vase replica. My apartment was full of replica collections. I'd been given my first replica as a gift from my mother, Verity, and after that it had turned into somewhat of an obsession.

Harper cleared her throat. "So, are you going to do it?" she asked eventually. "I need to go shopping, and it would be about fifty times easier without Langley for once."

I pursed my lips as I replaced the vase on its stand and sent Nicolas a particularly venomous look through my bangs. Turning my face to speak into the receiver, I said, "Well, you should have thought of that before you let Jordan—"

" _Emerson_."

Sighing, I abruptly sank down onto the couch and wiped my face in exhaustion. She'd caught me and she knew it. "Okay, fine, I'll do it," I said miserably. "But I'm putting her in a bubble and feeding her through tubes."

Harper smothered a giggle. "Why don't you just get your neighbor to help you?"

"Who, Nicolas?" I glanced at Nicolas as he sat down beside me with Mistoffelees in his arms, who was already purring and undoubtedly shedding all over him. I made a mental note to vacuum later. "No, he's not interested."

Nicolas's head immediately snapped in my direction. "Not interested in what?" he asked.

I tried to avert his attention from the conversation with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Nothing."

"No, really, what?" He pulled his hand away from Mistoffelees and leaned closer, squinting at me with interest. From his lap, Mistoffelees gave a displeased yowl.

"I'm watching my niece tomorrow."

A sudden, intense blue light filled his eyes. "The little girl with your sister yesterday?"

"Yes, but don't worry about it," I said. My eyelid twitched at the thought of Langley's grubby little hands anywhere near my apartment. "I'll be fine."

He shrugged, not looking convinced in the least. "If you say so. But if you have trouble, don't be afraid to ask, okay? I love kids."

Staring, I chewed at my lip and tried to think of a proper response. "Um."

Harper hissed into my ear, "Say thanks, you idiot!"

Startled, I blushed and coughed to hide a muffled yelp, mortified that she'd heard our exchange. I tipped my head to address Nicolas. "Er, thanks, I really appreciate it," I rushed, then immediately ducked my head to resume my conversation with Harper. "Uh, anyway, what time are you dropping her off?"

"Eleven, if that's okay."

I groaned and hid my face with my hand. "Eleven?"

"Is there a problem?"

"No," I grumbled. "That's fine. I guess I'll see you then?"

"Yep." A smile was evident in her voice. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Emerson. Thanks a million; you're the best."

I couldn't resist a tiny smile at her enthusiasm. "Of course I am," I responded softly. "Goodbye, Harper."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone and turned to Nicolas, fully prepared to lecture him for acting so carelessly in my apartment, but he beat me to a conversation with a smile.

"So, her name is Langley?" he asked.

I twitched. "Yeah, why?"

"Isn't that a military base somewhere?"

Warily, I said, "An air force base, yes."

"Isn't her father _in_ the military?"

"Yes." I crossed my arms and studied him over the rim of my glasses. "So what?"

"Um, nothing," he said, curling his fingers around his mouth to undoubtedly hide the outrageous smile I'd glimpsed only moments before. "Your family sure has a funny obsession with puns and names."

"Oh, shut up," I said darkly.

He brushed my irritation aside with a quirky grin. "Whatever, Em," he said, pausing to give the neglected Mistoffelees a particularly warm rub behind his ears. "At the risk of making things awkward again, are you sure you're okay to watch a kid tomorrow? Not that I find you particularly mentally unstable, but you _do_ like to keep things clean, and kids are especially dirty."

"I know, but I have to get used to it eventually," I mumbled, silently dragging my finger across the coffee table to check for dust.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Flicking a piece of lint from my fingertip, I shrugged in what I hoped was a casual gesture. "Dr. Speranza's looking into medication."

"Wow."

I glared. "What's so wow-worthy about it? It's perfectly normal."

"Oh, I know, I just meant that it's really great." He grinned in reassurance. "It'll be good to see you relax for once."

"Hmph." I tried my best to pin him with a grumpy expression, but I couldn't hide the twitch of a smile at the corner of my mouth.

"Anyway." Pushing himself away from the cushions, he scrubbed a hand through his shortish dark hair and strode to the door. Mistoffelees slinked unhappily to the floor. "I'd better get going. Let me know if you need help tomorrow, all right?"

"I won't, trust me. You'd break more stuff than Langley."

"Sorry about that," he said with a suddenly serious look. "You know I was just joking around, right?"

"I know." I lifted my hand in a wave, smiling at the taut, warm string of emotion in my chest. It felt good to finally have a friend. "Bye."

"See you," he said over his shoulder, and the door clicked shut like a contract sealed. Too bad I still had to take the trash out.

* * *

 

"Nicolas?"

A few moments after I knocked, the door opened to reveal a surprised-looking Nicolas in jeans and a black T-shirt. "Emerson?"

Ignoring the blush on my cheeks (it felt like a permanent fixture by this point), I took a deep breath and bravely breached the subject. "Uh. I need help."

"Okay." He arched an eyebrow. "How can I help?"

Exasperated, I motioned to the small, brown-haired girl with matching eyes who was currently attached to my arm. "She's impossible," I said.

Tracing my gesture to my niece, Langley, his entire face lit with a smile. "She's _adorable_ ," he said, kneeling to grin at her. "Hi there."

Wordlessly, Langley clutched my pant leg with a distrustful expression.

I winced. "Nicolas, do you see this? Do you see her grabbing me with her dirty hands? I'm going to get sick and die."

"Don't die!" she wailed, tugging harder.

Nicolas barely suppressed a laugh. "Um, don't worry, Langley, he's not going to die."

Her lips turned down in a pout. "He's always saying things like that, making up weird stuff about germs and dying."

The second laugh could not be suppressed. "Hey, how about this? I'll make you a snack to make you feel better."

"I haven't even had lunch yet," she noted with a sour expression.

Nicolas gave me a disapproving look over Langley's head.

"Hey, it's not my fault," I said, holding my hands up in defense. "Harper didn't feed her before she dropped her off."

"Uh huh." He stood, picking up Langley to perch the girl on his hip, much to her delight. His eyes narrowed as they landed on my hands – covered, predictably, in rubber gloves – and he fixed me with a wide, sloping grin. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me."

"Shut up and help me."

* * *

 

Two hours later found us baking chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, right when Harper called.

Eager for a break from Langley's tireless chattering and Nicolas's boundless patience (how did he _do_ it?), I stripped off my gloves and snatched the phone from its cradle. "Hello?"

"It's Harper," said a voice over the crackling line. "I'm on my way up."

"Okay. I'll see you in a few minutes," I said and clicked the phone off with my thumb. Behind me, Nicolas eased a sheet of cookies into the oven while Langley merrily ate the leftover cookie dough straight from the bowl.

"You'll get sick that way," I admonished and reached for her spoon. She yanked it away.

"He said I could have some."

I glared at Nicolas over her head. "He did?"

Ignoring my warning, Langley continued to eat the raw dough and bobbed her head in a nod. "He's nicer than you."

"Sorry about that," Nicolas had the decency to flash me a sheepish grin as he gently took the dirty mixing bowl from Langley and tipped it into the sink. She squalled unhappily until he winced and hesitantly handed the spoon back for her to lick.

"It's fine," I muttered, putting on a fresh pair of gloves and grabbing a sponge. I had just put it under the spray of water when I heard a knock on the door, and I grumbled as I pushed the cleaning supplies into Nicolas's hands. "Hold on, that's Harper."

"Mommy!" Langley crowed and jumped to her feet at the mention of her mother's name.

I frowned at her over my shoulder as I crossed the room to answer the door. "Sit back down; you'll get cookie dough all over the place."

"Will not!" she disagreed with an outrageous pout.

Nicolas seemed to take pity on me. "Come on, Langley," he said, appearing at her shoulder with a bright smile. "Let's wash our hands so we're clean for your mom, okay?"

She held her hands in front of her like a curse and stuck out her lower lip, staring at Nicolas with a look of childish resignation. "Okay," she said glumly.

Smiling, he took her dough-covered hand in his and gently tugged her into the bathroom. I felt a brief flash of gratitude that he'd remembered the bathroom was for washing hands, not the kitchen, and strode to the door to welcome a windblown Harper into the room. Nose red from the weather, she casually unwrapped her scarf and draped it across the back of a chair. "It's getting cold out there," she said, tucking her flippy honey-blonde hair behind her ears. "Don't forget your coat tomorrow, okay?"

Snorting, I picked up her scarf and hung it neatly on the coat rack mounted by the door. "What are you, my mother?"

"No," she said, glaring at me through her bangs, and shrugged out of her heavy black coat. "I'm your sister, and that's close enough."

"Whatever." I narrowed my eyes at her long sleeves and corduroy pants. "I know it's been windy lately, but don't you think you're overdoing it a bit? It's barely September."

Pausing, she stood frozen with her arm half-extended for the coat rack and stared at me with wide brown eyes. "Tell me you're joking."

I returned the gaze in confusion. "What?"

"Oh, my God," she said, hand fluttering near her mouth as though she wasn't sure whether or not she should cover it in horror. "You're serious."

Perplexed, I nodded.

Harper paled. "Emerson, it's almost October."

"What, are you kidding?" I asked, blanching to match my sister.

"No," she said and shook her head. "Your birthday is in like, two weeks."

"Oh." I picked at the sleeves of my shirt absently and squinted at the carpet. The only noticeable sound was the water running from the bathroom, so I cleared my throat and attempted to distract Harper from my apparently frazzled mental state. "So, did you buy me a present while you were out today?"

"None of your business," she said with a quirky little smile.

"Oh yeah?" I raised my eyebrows teasingly. "Then where were you going that you couldn't bring Langley with you? Little kids have big mouths." I was grinning now. "That was low, you know. Pinning her on me with my birthday so close."

She scoffed. "You wouldn't be getting anything if you hadn't taken her, so we'll call it even."

I crooked my finger at her with a victorious grin. "So you _did_ buy me a present."

Langley tore into the room, slamming the bathroom door hastily behind her and nearly hitting Nicolas in the process. " _Presents_?"

A few steps behind, Nicolas trailed in, smiling softly as he stood to the side and jammed his hands into his pockets.

Harper sighed and pushed her bangs away from her forehead. "Way to go, Emerson," she murmured, stooping to pull her daughter into her arms. She held her against her hip and spoke in a soft, warm voice that reminded me of our mother. "I don't have any presents for you, sweetie, but I do have the rest of the afternoon free. Do you still want to go to the park with me?"

"Yes," Langley chirped immediately, squirming excitedly in my sister's grasp.

"Okay, sounds good," she said and ruffled Langley's hair affectionately before she turned back to face me. "Anyway, I—" she stopped suddenly as her eyes found Nicolas. Smirking, she arched both eyebrows and asked in an all-too-amused voice, "I thought Emerson said he'd be fine?"

"Uh." My cheeks caught fire in a red blush and I risked a discreet glance in Nicolas's direction. "Yeah, about that," I said, faking a cough to cover my hesitation. "I got a little overwhelmed, I guess."

"He made me take a bath," said Langley sulkily from against Harper's shoulder.

"I see." Harper snorted to muffle a giggle and shifted Langley, waving to Nicolas with her free hand. "Nice seeing you again, Nico. Thanks for saving Langley from an overdose of disinfectant."

He curled his fingers inside his pockets and grinned, blue eyes shining like coins. "No problem," he said casually. "She's a cute kid."

"Yeah, she is," said Harper, fondly glancing down at her daughter. Langley, as if on cue, started fidgeting anxiously.

"Can we wait to leave until the cookies are done?" she asked in an almost-whine.

"Of course," Harper murmured, and she bent her knees to allow Langley to jump onto the floor. Hair bouncing in her pigtails, Langley darted over to the oven to watch the cookies bake with wide eyes. Harper shook her head in amusement. "So, how's work going?" she asked me.

"Fine," I said with a vague shrug. "There's not much variety. You know, correcting grammar and crushing overused verbs."

Her mouth stretched into a smirk. "Were you always this boring?"

"Very funny, Harper," I said dryly and rolled my eyes.

"Thanks, I thought so." Laughing, she turned to Nicolas. "How about you?"

"Me?" He blinked rapidly. "I run a restaurant. I've been going to a lot of meetings lately for possible funding to expand, so my work schedule has been a bit crazy lately." His face suddenly split into a grin. "Speaking of crazy, yesterday we had the _strangest_ guy come in who insisted the calamari was diseased."

I nearly choked and turned my head to the side to hide the blush that had suddenly scorched my cheeks. Harper, thankfully, somehow failed to notice and instead gave Nicolas an intrigued look.

"Oh, really? Why's that?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw him rubbing his chin in a thoughtful gesture. "I'm not really sure. As I recall, I believe he said it was—"

Very quietly, I said, "Shut up, Nicolas."

He gave me a cheeky grin. "Oh, right. I suppose it's rude to talk about people right in front of them."

"Emerson," Harper gasped with wide eyes, looking torn between mortification and amusement. "You _didn't_."

My cheek twitched as I mumbled, "I did."

She giggled and smacked her forehead. "I can't believe you—"

"Cookies!" Langley suddenly interrupted us with a high-pitched squeal as the timer went off. "The cookies are ready!"

"Great," I said, rolling my eyes. Smacking Nicolas's hand away from the cookie sheet, I procured a plate from the cabinet and placed it on the counter, setting the warm cookies on it after I'd taken them off the sheet. Langley reached for some, but I kindly gave her the same treatment I'd given Nicolas. "Don't touch," I said, turning off the oven.

"I helped make them, I can eat them!"

"I never said you couldn't eat them," I muttered and began rummaging through my cabinet again. After a small search, I found a small, clean Tupperware container and meticulously tipped six cookies inside. I checked to make sure the oven was off again. "Take these with you, then. They'll be cool by the time you get home."

"Thanks, Emerson," Harper drawled sarcastically from behind me as she gathered her coat and scarf. "Send my kid home with chocolate. That won't be a catastrophe or anything."

"Of course not," I said fondly, thrusting the container into her hands. I didn't trust Langley with it.

"Come here, Langley." Harper held her daughter's coat out for her with an affectionate smile, patiently helping her find the armholes. "Say goodbye."

"Don't wanna," she said, sulking as she attempted to fix her zipper.

"Fine, then." Harper flipped a strand of hair away from her face and shook hands with Nicolas. "Thanks for helping Emerson. He's a disaster with children."

"No problem. It was nice seeing you," he said, then directed a particularly large, beaming smile at my niece, accompanied with a jaunty little wave. "Bye, Langley."

Langley cheerfully returned the gesture, her previous pouty sentiments obviously forgotten. "Bye!"

Harper cast me an amused glance. "See you, Emerson."

"Uh huh," I muttered, eyeing Langley with a distinctly wary expression. "Goodbye."

Harper winked at me and herded Langley through the door, leaving Nicolas and me alone. I strode across the room to lock the door out of habit, and Nicolas shuffled his feet restlessly.

"Want some help cleaning up?" he asked eventually.

"Um." I stopped in my tracks and turned to stare at him awkwardly. "No, that's okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." Wordlessly, I began to clear the dishes, stacking them next to the sink to be washed by hand. I didn't trust dishwashers. "I've sort of got my own way of doing things."

His eyes darkened. "You mean I'll mess it up."

"What?" My head snapped up and I cringed at his expression. " _No_. No, that's not it at all. I didn't intend to—that is, I'm just…" I motioned uselessly and gave him a pathetic, pleading look, at a loss for words.

"But you were fine with Harper."

I tilted my head bewilderedly. "What?"

"You know, no stuttering or averting your eyes or any of that. I've never seen you so relaxed before."

"She's _family_ , Nicolas," I explained in a pained voice. "It's different. I've known her for nearly twenty-six years now."

"And that's another thing," he suddenly burst out, his knuckles abruptly bleached white from stress as he balled his hands at his sides. "Are we friends or not, Em? I figured you would have at least told me that your birthday is in two weeks."

"I forgot," I said simply.

Eyebrows arched, he crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, you shouldn't, since you were obviously listening to our conversation. You heard it. Harper even had to remind me."

"I know, I just…" Seemingly at a loss, he unfolded his arms, scraped one long-fingered hand through his hair, and slumped his shoulders with a sigh. "Never mind, I'm sorry."

I stumbled through my words. "It's, um. It's okay, I guess." To avoid his gaze, I turned to the sink and began methodically washing anything within reach. "I'm…" I briefly shut my eyes. "I'm sorry I'm like this."

"Don't be," he said, sotto voce. "It's who you are."

"No, it's not." I stopped to find a new sponge and redoubled my efforts, attacking a particularly dirty plate with soapy water almost up to my elbows.

"What do you mean?"

"I wasn't this bad until after college, when I was a reporter." I stacked the now-clean plate in a pile off to the side, wincing at my memories. "Apparently it, uh, fluctuates with stress."

"You were a reporter?"

My mouth stretched into a faint, tense smile. "Of course I was a reporter. Didn't you know? You don't get famous by pulling extraneous commas out of editorials for years."

"So what happened?"

I shrugged. "Too stressful. This—" I briefly motioned to the dish I was scrubbing "—got really bad. And I was obsessed with symmetry, even when I talked."

"How can speech be symmetrical?"

I cast my eyes to the floor in a moment of vague shame. "I counted syllables and clicked my tongue to fill in spaces if the words were uneven."

"And you _interviewed_ people like that?"

I bit back a laugh and smiled thinly instead. "No. See, that's why I switched to copy editing. I figured that if I could mentally construct coherent sentences with an even amount of syllables one second before I had to say them, I could probably help people with sentence structure."

"Heh."

Twitching, I barely suppressed the urge to scowl. "What's funny about that?"

"Nothing. It's just…" Gesturing vaguely at my stance, he tilted his head and studied me with a warm expression. "You're relaxed for once. It's cool."

"Oh." I briefly rolled that thought around in my mind before breaking into a genuine smile. "I guess I'm just getting used to you."


	7. Chapter 7

To be perfectly honest, starting medication didn't help much. True, Demitrav had only thrust it upon me fairly recently, but I had still expected something. Anything other than this.

Eight-thirty on a Thursday, and there I stood outside my apartment, touching the doorknob with my sleeve and engaged in a showdown with my worst enemy: the door. Speranza had urged me to push myself further and touch the door with my bare hand, but I'd informed her that was asking too much. Her next suggestion was closing it fewer times, and even I had to admit twenty-six was a _little_ excessive, so I'd hesitantly agreed.

Progress thus far? None whatsoever.

I had just closed it, but I couldn't remember if it had latched. The sound of the soothing click was stored perfectly in my head, and I could play wsaqit over and over for myself, but, for the life of me, I couldn't recall whether or not I had actually heard it.

It was stupid, really. Who cared if it hadn't clicked? I hadn't heard of a theft in my apartment complex in years, and besides, who was going to steal from me? Nicolas? The old man two doors down who couldn't even hobble down the hall without his walker? It was safe, it was certainly safe, and I would only be gone for a few hours. I had nothing to worry about.

And yet, I could not bring myself to let go of the door.

I was fused to it. Inseparably. Honestly, I felt like I could not let go of that door unless I knew for _sure_ that it had latched, with that peaceful click so flawlessly recreated in my mind, and I was absolutely going to either _die_ or _explode_ if I didn't fix it now now now, and why wasn't this anxiety medication working _right now_ , and who would know except myself if I—

"Hey, Em, having some trouble there?"

I jumped in surprise. "Nicolas!" On reflex, I dropped my hand away and turned to greet my neighbor. "Is watching my apartment part of your daily routine or something?"

"Nah, I've just got good timing," he said with a grin, and stretched his arm to lean against the wall, head cocked to the side, inquisitive. "You wouldn't happen to be counting again, would you?"

I bristled and snapped automatically, "And what business is it of yours?"

"Well. As your neighbor, it is my personal duty to keep you from damaging your door frame, and also to prevent you from inspiring widespread insanity among the other tenants."

"Widespread insanity?" I deadpanned.

"Yes." His grin softened into a smile, and he rapped his knuckles twice on the door. "You see, hearing this fifty times a day can be quite wearing on one's mental health."

"Twenty-six times," I corrected him. "And what do you mean, on _one_ 's mental health? You mean yours?"

"Actually, it _is_ fifty," he backtracked momentarily, "because you go through the door at least twice a day. Thus, fifty."

"Then that would make it fifty-two, and stop changing the subject. Does the door really drive you insane?"

"It used to," he confessed as his smile faded. "At first, I thought you were some crazy guy with anger management issues, but then I started looking for you and realized you were just some scrawny blond kid with glasses and a suit. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why you were doing it, until I actually took the time to talk to you, and realized—"

"I'm not scrawny," I cut him off with a growl. "Or a kid."

"You're both," he said, seemingly relieved that he didn't have to finish his sentence. Pushing off from the wall, he raised his other hand to tap my arm with a smirk. "Look at this. It's like limp pasta."

I was tempted to say something along the lines of, _Your_ brain _is like limp pasta_ , but somehow I didn't think that would help my case. So instead I just snorted and jerked my arm away and marveled briefly at the lack of heebie jeebies where his skin had touched mine. Maybe my medication was having a placebo effect.

"Look," I said, pulling my key out of a zippered pocket on my bag to lock the door. "Thank you very much for your ritualistic morning insult—" mentally, I congratulated myself for not stumbling on _ritualistic_ "—but I'm early for the first time in six years, so if it's okay with you, I'd like to leave for work now."

Spreading his arms to the side, he grinned and asked, "Who's stopping you?"

I just snorted and pushed him aside on my way down the hall.

* * *

I still hadn't worked my way up to taking the elevator yet, so I was forced to take the stairs and lost my chance to be early. I didn't have much time to dwell on it, though, because as soon as I reached my floor, I noticed an unexpected visitor loitering around my desk: Sheridan. The pockets of her sable-colored blazer seems suspiciously heavy, and it was with a sigh that I took the last few steps to my chair and tossed my briefcase onto the desk with slightly more than the usual force.

Predictably, Sheridan started and whipped around to meet my glare, her short red hair all askew, bangs slanted into her eyes, and yet the brightest part of her appearance was her smile. "Emerson!" she crowed.

And that was not the greeting I had expected. "Sheridan," I replied cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, nothing, I just thought I'd drop by," she said, bubbly beyond belief, and tilted her head sideways as she swung her arms behind her back. "How has your day been?"

"It just started." Unthinkingly, my eyes lowered to her pockets once more, and I mentally began cataloguing and counting everything on my desk. Hopefully she hadn't had time to pilfer my drawers just yet. I belatedly realized that she was waiting for more of a response than that and blurted, "Uh, so, what about you?"

"Just great!" she beamed. "I really wanted to thank you for not blowing my cover in front of Nico the other day, so I thought I'd give you a present."

"A… a present?" I stammered.

"You heard me!" she said, and dipped her hands into her bulging pockets to produce several packs of…

"Sheridan," I said exasperatedly, "are those _office pens_?"

Sheridan, holding two packs in each hand, merely blinked at me. "Huh?"

I lowered my voice and hissed, "Please tell me you didn't steal those."

Her pale face immediately clouded in anger, eyebrows bent at sharp, livid angles, and her mouth warped into a frown. "Excuse me?"

"I said," I began, frustrated, and then paused when I got a good look at her face. "Um," I stumbled mentally for a moment. "Sorry. But I have to ask – you _didn't_ steal those, right?"

She gasped, "I can't believe you would even think that!"

"Well, I just thought, you know, given your history…"

Bristling, she brandished her index finger and shook it violently in my face. "You know, I don't judge _you_ based on _your_ previous behavior. Sometimes you just have to live in the present."

I stared at her, baffled, and could only think to say, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, I guess," she said, and her angry gaze softened as she held out both boxes of pens. She even smiled a little. "Just don't do it again."

"Okay." I accepted the pens with a grateful nod of my head. "Hey, these are pretty nice. Thank you."

"No problem." Folding her hands behind her back, she rocked on her heels a little and continued watching me, almost expectantly.

"Um." I shifted my weight awkwardly in my chair. "Was there anything else?"

She blushed slightly. "Actually, yes."

I froze, taking in the pink tinge of her cheeks, the shy look in her eyes, and the way she kept rocking towards me. Oh, God, she wasn't going to touch me, was she?

"What is it?" I asked shakily after forcing myself to swallow.

"Well." She toed the ground awkwardly, just before bursting out with, "Okay, so I lied a little, and I stole some pens from you earlier last week and Dr. Demitrav made me buy you these because I lost the old ones, but I really _do_ want to thank you for not giving me away the other day, because Nico is really nice and _you're_ really nice, and I don't have any friends, so I thought that _we_ could all be friends."

I stared.

Tentatively, she asked, "Would that be okay?"

"Um." I blinked a little and wondered at actually feeling relieved. "Yeah, sure."

And I was surprised to find I meant it.

* * *

Nicolas had invaded my couch the moment I opened my door, flipping on my rarely used television and complaining about an oversized shipment of tomatoes his restaurant had received. I came very close to snapping at him about sitting on other people's clean couches without asking, but I caught myself just in time to prevent an overreaction and possible argument. So Nicolas remained on my couch, even after I changed the channel to Modern Marvels, a show I actually enjoyed, which was currently explaining magnetic stripes as Nicolas scratched Mistoffelees's chin.

"I should have known you'd watch boring TV," he commented.

"Shh!" I said, perched on the edge of a cushion with my arms folded across my knees. I actually _liked_ learning about magnetic stripes, and I wanted to hear what the narrator had to say.

Nicolas dropped his head onto the back of the couch and groaned, "Can't we watch something we both like?"

"You can leave if you want," I said once the show switched to a commercial break.

Nicolas sighed a little and pulled my cat into his lap. Mistoffelees purred at the attention while Nicolas asked, "So, what do you want for your birthday?"

"You don't have to get me anything," I said with a shrug.

"That's not what I asked."

"I don't want anything," I repeated after a long silence, then held out my hand as the show started up again. "Now be quiet."  
 

"Come on, Em, just tell me," he wheedled.

"A book of Euler circuits," I snapped sarcastically. "Are you physically incapable of shutting up?"

"Yes."

I exhaled irritably through my nose. "Liar."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I don't want anything."

"Come on, Emerson, there has to be something." Suddenly, he snatched the remote from my hands and flipped the TV off, cutting off my yell of indignation with another question, "Do you want me to look bad in front of everyone else?"

I paused for a brief surge of fear. "Everyone else?" I asked slowly.

He ducked his head to hide his sheepish look, but not fast enough, because I still caught it. I shifted to look him straight in the eyes. "Nicolas, you aren't planning something, are you? I hate surprises. They're terribly stressful."

"Me? No, no way," he responded immediately, followed by a relieved-sounding breath.

"Good." I joined him in a breath of reprieve, enjoying the rushing relief of all the tension draining from my bones, and then suddenly stiffened as I was hit by another possibility. "Wait a minute. Tell me you're not—" I trailed off for fear of finishing the sentence.  
   

Nicolas just looked amused. "Tell me I'm not what?"

"Coming to—" I gestured extravagantly, shaping a small triangle on my head with my hands in imitation of a party hat.

"No, I am not coming to—" he copied my hand motions, smirking the whole time. "But I _have_ been invited to your birthday party."

"By whom?" I demanded.

"Harper."

I stopped to think about it for a moment, and then decided, "I am going to kill her."

Across from me, Nicolas's eyebrows drew together and his mouth tightened into one straight, pale line. "Huh?"

"I am going to kill her. Slowly. With a spoon." I pushed myself up from the couch and began pacing along the rug in front of the television. Mistoffelees meowed and jumped to attack my feet. "I can't believe she did that," I hissed.

"You don't want me to come?" he asked softly.

 _"No_!" I paced a few more steps, and then looked up to really see and comprehend Nicolas's crushed expression and immediately felt guilty. "No, no, that's not what I meant. I don't know." I took a deep breath to collect myself. "I'm just not sure I want you to meet my family."

Nicolas looked a little stunned. "Oh."

"Don't give me that look." Pleadingly, I added, "Come on, Nicolas."

He waved it off with a mechanical smile. "It's fine, don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that, really. It's just that my family can be unpredictable and I don't want them to do anything to embarrass me."

Shaking his head, he murmured, "I said it's fine, didn't I?"

"Yes, but…" I suddenly felt miserable. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He wiped his hands on his pants before unfolding himself from the couch. "Look, I think I'm just gonna head back and watch TV at my place for a while, okay? No hard feelings."

"Wait," I burst out as he reached the door.

He turned to look at me over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

I don't know," I admitted, twisting my hands anxiously even as Mistoffelees bit my toe. I kicked him off with only a vague sense of irritation. "I feel really bad," I continued. "Why don't we go get some food or something?"

"Thanks, but I'll be okay," he said with a smile. "See you around, kid."

* * *

 

I still felt awful the next day. I sat at my desk, taking out all my frustrations on the papers on my desk, furiously rubbing out every mistake and graphite blemish on each document with a kneaded eraser. Halfway through the day, I was surprised to see a flash of red pass by my peripheral vision, followed almost immediately by a Ziploc bag full of paper clips dropping onto my desk.

"Another present?" I asked dryly, already knowing the culprit, and poked the plastic bag with my eraser.

"Nope!" Sheridan said, a little too brightly for my current mood.

Returning to a very stubborn pencil mark on a memo about moving Casual Friday to Casual Thursday, I asked, "Then what is it?"

"Er," she said, and I looked up to see an intensely embarrassed expression suddenly steal across her face.

"Sheridan," I moaned and dropped my forehead onto my desk. "Tell me those aren't the paper clips I lost last week."

"And the week before," she added meekly.

"For the love of God, will you stop stealing my stuff?" I snapped, suddenly sitting upright with such force that my chair wheeled backwards a few feet, bumping into the table behind me.

"You okay?" asked the worker behind the wall.

"None of your business," I called back, and then winced. "I mean, yes. I'm fine, thanks." Ducking my head against the first strains of guilt, I slowly pulled myself back up to the desk.

Sheridan stared. "Did something happen yesterday?"

Tiredly, I looked up at her and asked, "Why?"

"You're being weird." Tugging her viridian green suit jacket closer around herself, she fixed a button that had come undone and slid to sit on the edge of my desk. I warily eyed the stretched fabric of her skirt, wondering just exactly when she had washed it last, or where she'd been sitting the previous ten minutes, but carefully kept my mouth shut. Sheridan tilted her head sideways, scrutinizing me with a bright, piercing gaze that reminded me of Speranza, and I looked away uncomfortably. "Did you have a bad night?" she pressed.

"No," I lied immediately, and then cringed. What the hell was I doing? Here was someone offering to listen to me gripe, when I had to pay Speranza to do the same. 

"Okay." She seemed to know I'd lied, and she dangled one leg down the side of my desk, her matching green shoes just barely toeing the carpet. "Well, um, I guess I'll see you later, then?"

"Sheridan."

Glancing at me through her vividly red bangs, she said, "Yeah?"

Almost absently, I began molding my eraser into the shape of a cat. "I guess I sort of offended Nicolas last night, and he hasn't really talked to me since." I suddenly flattened the cat in the palm of my hand, unsatisfied, and began shaping a bear instead. "I'm unhappy, because I don't have many friends, and I keep upsetting the ones I have."

Assumedly glowing with the joy of my trust, she grinned at me like it was the easiest thing in the word and said, "So, what did you do?"

"I'd rather not say."

Her smile seemed to stumble a bit, but she recovered quickly. "That's okay, I understand. You at least apologized, right?"

"Um." I mentally backtracked for a moment. "Yes. Twice. And I offered food."

"Oh," she said, one eyebrow jumping up on her forehead. "You offered free food to an epicure and he turned you down?"

I stared at her for a moment. "Did you just use epicure in a regular conversation?"

"Entertainment and Culture beat editor," she reminded.

"Oh." I almost smiled. "And yes, I did."

Sheridan let out a low whistle and shook her head. "There goes everything I thought I ever knew about men. I guess you'll have to bribe him with something else."

"I'm not bribing him."

"Fine, fine. I guess that's more of a girl thing. What the hell do guys like?" She thoughtfully framed her chin with her thumb and fingers, almost going cross-eyed with contemplation.

I wanted to say desk organizers and spinning tie racks, but I had to politely remind myself that I was not a typical guy, and Nicolas would probably rather get a boring, long-winded note of apology than anything I'd like. "I don't know," I said.

"Come on, you're a guy, tell me what kind of stuff you like!" Snapping her fingers impatiently, she added, "Don't worry, I promise I can make it thoughtful."

"Something I'd like," I repeated slowly, and it was like the light bulb effect my teachers had always described seeing in kids. I smiled at Sheridan, one of the first real smiles I'd exchanged with her, and set down the eraser bear on top of the Casual Thursday memo. "You know, I think I've got an idea. Thanks for your help, Sheridan."

She lit up at hearing her name, possibly amazed that I'd remembered it. If only she knew I remembered almost everybody's name, including the scrawny mail boy, Joe.

"You're welcome," she said in a warm, honest tone, and hopped off my desk. "Need anything else?"

"Nope," I said, discreetly opening a side drawer to produce a Clorox wipe for the desk space she'd occupied, and waved her off. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay!" Looking rather accomplished, she gave me a little wave of farewell and presumably trotted off to her work station. I waited twenty-six seconds before buffing the desk with Clorox.

"Something I'd like," I said again, under my breath, and pulled up a Word document on my computer.

At the end of the day, I returned to my apartment complex to find the hallway empty and Nicolas's door shut. I supposed it was to be expected, and I squatted in front of his doorway to slide a crisp white envelope underneath the wooden door before retreating into my room.

Inside, I had placed an organized list of possible gifts for myself, ranked in two columns down the center of the page, one according to want and one according to need. At the bottom, I had typed a brief apology letter and signed it by hand, before enclosing it all in the envelope and writing _Nicolas_ with a borrowed calligraphy pen from Sheridan.

Hopefully this would mend any feelings I had hurt, and he would still come to the party next week, no matter how much I dreaded that particular event.


	8. Chapter 8

As far as apologies went, it hadn't been the best or most eloquent, but it had certainly been effective. Since then he'd commandeered my couch on a near-daily basis and made lifelong best friends with my cat, and I began to fear a state of pudginess from all of Nicolas's cooking. Recently I'd hesitantly begun referring to him as a friend in casual conversation. I had to admit it wasn't so bad having regular social interactions, even if it was as simple as watching the Discovery Channel for a few hours while I listened to him complain about my taste in television shows.

The night of my birthday party Nicolas took up a post against the wall as I got ready. He stood just to the left of a small, framed painting of a blue vase of flowers the same color of his eyes. I could see him clearly in the mirror. He crossed his arms and watched me as I opened a new package of soap I'd retrieved from underneath the sink and began to wash my hands.

"I don't see what you're so nervous about," he said eventually. "I think it's really nice that Harper invited me."

"I think she's meddling, that's what," I mumbled, scrubbing furiously at my knuckles.

He tilted his head with a sour look. "Yeah, I can see that – inviting your only friend to your birthday party. There's definitely an ulterior motive there."

"Since when are you sarcastic?" I asked, setting the soap aside and rinsing my hands.

"And since when are you so suspicious and oversensitive?" Shifting positions, he uncrossed his arms, then abruptly crossed them again, watching as I dried my hands and washed them a second time. "Seriously, she's just looking out for you. Lighten up, okay?" I caught his reflection in the mirror as he smiled at me. "It'll be fun."

"If by fun you mean catastrophic, then yes," I snapped, rinsed and dried my hands, and then prepared for a third wash.

Nicolas watched me silently for a while, until my fifth time through the cycle, when he pushed away from the wall to stand at my shoulder. "So, is this normal, or are you just nervous about the party?"

"Um." I fumbled the soap, and it slid swiftly from my hands, onto the counter top, and onto the floor. "I should've figured you'd notice," I said glumly, already stooping to fetch a new bar of soap from the cabinet.

"It's kind of hard to miss," Nicolas said, pointing to my lobster-bright hands.

I snorted softly. "I suppose."

"Yeah," murmured Nicolas, adjusting his jacket almost awkwardly. "So, uh. Is it?"

"Normal, you mean?" At Nicolas's nod, I sighed, opening the new soap, and stood. "Yes, quite. It also doesn't help that stress—"

"—exacerbates the symptoms, I know," he interjected, and I barely had time to wonder how he knew that before he was squinting at me. "So what are you so worried about, kid?"

"First of all," I began, suddenly angry as I put my hands under the steady flow of sink water, "I'm not a kid. I'm going to be twenty-six. And second of all—"

"You're going to be twenty-six?" he interrupted.

Frowning, I replied, "That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"Well, that's great!" At my bewildered stare, Nicolas merely sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and continued, "It's like your lucky number, right? This will be a good year for you, I bet."

"Lucky number," I mumbled irritably, soaping up my hands. "Not exactly. But anyway, as I was saying, second of all, I know Harper better than you do. She's meddling."

He rolled his eyes. "If you say so."

"I do say so," I said, a smile twitching at the corner of my mouth despite my best efforts to continue looking annoyed. Ducking to hide the expression, I went to rinse my hands.

"And you're freaking me out with the whole obsessive cleaning thing." Halfway through rinsing, Nicolas grabbed my hands and pulled them out from the flow of water, nodding to the irritated, red skin of my knuckles. "I think you can stop now."

"But," I protested, fidgeting awkwardly, and tried not to wonder about the last time he'd washed his hands.

"Chill," Nicolas murmured soothingly, as though sensing my distress. He squeezed my fingers and grinned. "They're your family. Nothing to worry about, right?"

"Langley's going to be there," I snapped, suddenly shaking him off. "Two more times and I'm done."

"Fine." Sighing, he pushed off from against the door, presumably to go play with Mistoffelees. I watched him with a vague sense of guilt and began scrubbing a little harder to distract myself.

As promised, two more cycles and I was done. I absently dried my hands on my hand towel and walked back into the living room, all set to grab my keys and wallet and head out. However, Nicolas jumped up from the couch with an alarmed expression and immediately grabbed my hand.

"Nicolas, what—" I began in surprise, attempting to pull myself away.

Nicolas cut me off. "What did you do?" he asked as he examined my hands with a somewhat slack-jawed expression. "You're bleeding!"

"I'm what?" Following his gaze, I saw that my knuckles had crackled open and were indeed bleeding. "I…"

"You didn't even notice, did you?" he asked flatly and pursed his lips. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to yell at me, but instead he merely sighed and glanced around the room. "Where do you keep the first aid kit?"

"Cabinet in the kitchen," I managed to say, waving vaguely in the appropriate direction.

"Okay." Releasing my hand, he trotted obediently to the cabinet to rifle around for a package of Band-Aids and triple-action antibacterial ointment. After finding them, he returned to discover me staring sullenly at the wall. "You okay, kid?"

"Sure," I muttered with a shrug, too embarrassed to even comment on the 'kid' remark.

He shot me a decidedly disbelieving look. "You know, 'sure' is not a very positive response."

"Exactly." Clenching my fists tightly, I fought back a grimace and continued in what I hoped was not a bitter tone, "I feel stupid."

"You're not stupid," Nicolas murmured, face softening, and he pulled me to sit on the couch with him. Opening the box of Band-Aids, he smiled at me a little and picked out three knuckle bandages.

"Stop patronizing me. I know that's exactly what you're thinking."

"Oh, so you're a mind-reader now?" He looked unfairly amused. "Give me your hand."

"Stop it," I grumbled, attempting to jerk away, and frowned when he reached out to take my hand by force. I was surprised to find that he'd put on gloves without my having to ask. "I told you – I'm not a kid."

"What's that got to do with this?" he asked as he gingerly caressed my fist in one hand and squeezed antibiotic cream onto my knuckles. He rubbed it in with soothing fingertips while I glared venomously.

"I mean, you don't have to treat me like some five-year-old. I have a real job, a real apartment, and I pay for my phone bill and my health insurance all by myself.  I can take care of myself." Anxiously, I started twitching and subconsciously flexing my fingers.

Nicolas just raised one dark eyebrow and looked purposely down at my oozing knuckles. Softly, he clucked his tongue and said, "Uh-huh."

"Oh, shut up," I snapped with a scowl. "It's no big deal."

"Stop twitching; you're going to smear it everywhere." Releasing my hand momentarily, he picked up one of the Band-Aids and peeled the paper away from the adhesive.

In a rare moment of obedience, I stilled and watched as Nicolas treated me to another gentle smile.

"Okay, here you go," he said as he slowly and carefully applied the three bandages. "How do you feel?"

"Like a complete moron," I blurted before I could stop myself. Oh, well; at least I was being honest.

Laughing, he crumpled up the papers from the Band-Aids and tossed them into the trash, already gathering the rest of the supplies to replace in the kitchen cabinet. "I already told you – you aren't."

I stubbornly crossed my arms and frowned. "I am and you know it, so let's just drop the subject."

"Fine," he sighed, admitting defeat, and got up to put the ointment and bandages away. "Are you ready to go?"

"No," I said stubbornly.

Nicolas made a face. "Em, what's wrong with you tonight?"

"What do you mean?" I questioned as I followed suit, pushing off from the couch cushions to stand and put on my coat.

"Your family's throwing a party and all you can do is complain. You're freaking out for no reason, and this—" he pointed to my now-bandaged hand "—doesn't usually happen."

"So?" I asked, shoving my hand in my pocket.

" _So_ ," he said and arched both eyebrows, "I'm worried."

"Nicolas, stop it. You're seriously pissing me off. How many times do I have to tell you to stop treating me like a kid? So stop calling me that, and stop worrying about me. How old are you that you think you can treat me like a child, anyway?"

"Thirty, but that has nothing to do with it," he insisted firmly. "I'm not treating you like a child – I'm treating you like a friend."

I blinked, unable to move my brain past "thirty". "You're a lot older than I am."

For a moment, he could only stare at me, and then he broke into unexpected laughter. "Tell that to the businessmen who think I'm too young to own my own restaurant chain."

"Huh?"

He just shook his head and closed the cabinet, joining me by the door. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. Are you ready to go?"

"Um," I said, glancing down at my bandaged hand, pressed black pants, and comfortable blue sweater. "I guess so. I just feel like I'm forgetting something."

Nicolas gave me a pointed look.

"What?" I asked.

"Emerson," he began, nearly laughing again, "when do you ever feel like you're _not_ forgetting something?"

My expression immediately darkened. "That's not funny," I muttered in a sour tone.

"Sorry." At least he had the good grace to look guilty. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's okay. Just…" I glanced down at my watch. "Give me fifteen minutes to double-check everything? I'll meet you downstairs."

"Nope." Grinning at my bewildered look, he continued, "I'd rather wait up here and watch you."

"Um… Okay," I said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable beneath his vivid blue gaze.

He shifted a little, as though realizing how his statement must have sounded, and awkwardly put his hands in his pockets. "Just so you don't lose track of time and spend half an hour instead of fifteen minutes."

"Okay," I agreed. "That's fine."

* * *

We were late to the party, but it had probably been expected. My family was more than aware of my tendency to never be on time for anything, and Harper was predictably waiting outside to greet me while Langley busied herself digging a very big hole with a stick and ruining her stockings and the bottom half of her ruffled pink dress. A puffy purple marshmallow of a jacket protected her upper half. Upon seeing Nicolas, however, my niece promptly forgot any ambitions to dig a hole to China and enthusiastically threw herself at his legs in a dirty hug.

I inched away as discreetly as possible, and Nicolas's eyes were laughing when he looked down at me. Standing in front of us, Harper shot me a secretive sort of smile, and I had a briefly optimistic feeling about the party.

"Come on," Harper murmured, touching my shoulder gently, and motioned to the front door. "Let's go inside."

Once we were in the foyer of my parents' house, however, that optimistic feeling quickly faded.

Despite only inviting immediate family (and Nicolas, apparently), my mother had dressed herself in a crisp white blouse, complete with a blue suit jacket and matching skirt. She was obviously trying to impress Nicolas, which was stupid, in my opinion, because what the _hell_ did Nicolas care about my mother's financial status?

"Emerson," she called affectionately upon seeing me and rushed over to greet me with a hug.

 _Ugh_ , I thought, but what I said was, "Hi, mom," as I put one arm around her and tentatively patted her shoulder twice before withdrawing.

You must be Nicolas," she said as she turned to him and smiled, not unkindly.

I blinked at that.

"Hello, Mrs. Lyre," he returned her greeting amicably.

"Oh, _do_ call me Verity, dear. It's so nice to see one of Emerson's friends."

 _Weird_ , I noted mentally. _She's usually cold to strangers. Maybe this won't be so bad_.

And then my dad walked out in a flamingo-print Hawaiian-style shirt, carrying a newspaper beneath his arm, and for a second I thought my mother was going to rupture something. Her spleen, maybe. Or my father's head.

"Edward," she exclaimed, swooping over to him with a borderline murderous expression. "What are you _wearing_?"

"My pajamas," he answered crankily as he eased himself into a gray recliner.  He shifted his feet onto a matching ottoman, at which point I noticed he was wearing scruffy old slippers. At my side, Nicolas snorted, and I tried hard not to smile.

"It's your son's birthday and you're wearing pajamas," she repeated dubiously. "Is that the kind of impression you want to make on his friends?"

"I see 'im."

"Well, aren't you going to _introduce_ yourself?" she nagged. "It's _polite_."

Sighing, my dad folded his paper and looked pointedly at Nicolas. "Hello. I'm Emerson's father, Edward. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Hello, sir," Nicolas ventured uncertainly. "It's nice to meet you. I'm—"

"Nicolas Biancan't-pronounce-it," he nodded. "Nice to meet you, Verity and Harper've told me all about you."

"Uh," Nicolas said, dumbfounded. "They have?"

"They _have_?" I chimed in behind him. "When did this happen? Harper's only met him once—"

"Twice, actually," my sister corrected.  
 

 "—and I didn't think Mom knew he _existed_ until five minutes ago," I finished, sounding a lot more affronted than I actually felt.

"Well, don't I feel special," Nicolas chimed sarcastically.

"Shut up, Nicolas," I snapped, and just like that, it was easy. Harper laughed and called me a hopeless bastard, my mother squawked at hearing such language from her only daughter, and my dad bitched under his breath about the lack of good news these days. Looking unreasonably amused, Nicolas caught my eyes with his, and I suddenly felt like smiling. Even Langley couldn't bother me with her dirt-stained hands, partially due to the fact that she had confined herself in the kitchen to search for the cake, but mostly because I was actually in a good mood.

                                                                    * * *                                               

Overall, the party wasn't _too_ mentally scarring. My mother insisted on Nicolas calling her Verity the whole night, Langley ran into the sliding glass door, and there was a point where my father gruffly announced that he'd been wearing pants for too long, goddammit, and that he wanted to feel comfortable in his own house – but beyond that, it had been almost fun. At least no one had asked about my bandaged hand yet.

Also, it helped that there were presents.

"This is from me," Langley began the present-giving ritual boastfully as she handed me a folded piece of construction paper.

Accepting it hesitantly, I shot Harper a nervous look, and she merely nodded and made exaggerated 'go on, open it!' gestures with her hands. Carefully, I unfolded the paper and blinked at what appeared to be a crudely-drawn picture of me with Nicolas and an endless floating array of chocolate chip cookies. Even I had to admit that it was cute.

Smirking, I ran my fingers along the crease from the fold and gave my niece an unexpectedly affectionate look. "Thank you, Langley. I love it."

The little girl squealed appropriately and launched herself at me for a hug, but Nicolas was luckily there to grab her and turn her upside down, tickling her stomach until she shrieked and squirmed away. I mouthed 'thank you' to him and he flashed me a cheerful thumbs up. Discreetly, I squeezed some Purell onto my hands before anyone could hand me something else to open.

From Harper, I received a framed family photograph of her, Jordan, and Langley – which I privately planned on Photoshopping Jordan out of – as well as a package of wonderful-smelling orange spice tea from wherever the hell Jordan was stationed at the moment. And okay, maybe I wouldn't Photoshop him out of the picture, but only if he sent me tea on a regular basis.

My parents gave me an unnecessarily extravagant card with thick, embossed paper and gold-gilded writing, in which they had penned a long and heartfelt message and slipped in a ridiculous sum of money. Distantly I felt a little bribed, or written off, like they couldn't have put in the thought of getting me a real gift, but it was probably the most appropriate gift they could have given. Money was always useful. I could buy whatever I wanted with it (cleaning products, cleaning products, cleaning products), and it wasn't like I'd told them what I'd wanted, anyway.

"Thanks," I told them all with a mostly-genuine smile. We'd already had cake, so I began placing the various presents into my messenger bag and started to say something along the lines of 'well, we'd better get going now,' but Nicolas's voice stopped me.

"Hey," he said in a mock-hurt tone, "you didn't forget about me, did you?"

I blinked at him. Although I'd given him a list of possible things to buy for me, I hadn't really expected him to give it to me here. I wasn't sure why I'd anticipated a private gift-giving setting, but it seemed like something Nicolas would do.

"Uh, no," I answered, feeling embarrassed. I set my bag back down. "Sorry."

"I'll forgive you just this once," he teased, leaning over the arm of his chair to snatch his coat off the coat rack, and dug into the breast pocket to produce a well-wrapped rectangular box. He tossed it at me with a grin. "Open it up."

Barely catching it in time, I took a moment to admire the blue paper and matching bow before I deftly slid my fingernail beneath the tape and opened it from the side. Into my hand tipped – well, it was still a rectangular box, but it was deep red with a silver-rimmed lid. I opened it almost reverently.

It was a watch. "Are you trying to tell me there's something wrong with my watch?" I joked, but my heart wasn't in it. It was a nice watch, and I felt irrationally guilty that he had bought it, because hell, did he really have that much money to spend on his neighbor?

"It must not work, because you're late all the time," he pointed out.

"I am not," I snapped on reflex, even though it was true. "And it works just fine!"  
 

"It's old. You've had it since you moved in," said Nicolas bluntly, still grinning, and I felt a wash of surprise that he'd even noticed. "It was time for a new one."

"Yeah," I agreed, and looked back down at the watch. It was gold, and I suddenly realized that it was perfect – I was twenty-six, and I had to move past all the time I'd wasted during the previous years. I smiled shyly. "Thanks, Nico."

His expression flickered. "Wait, what?"

I stared at him. "Huh?"

:What'd you just say?" he asked, leaning forward expectantly.

"Uh." Almost awkwardly, I looked at my parents and my sister before repeating, "I said thank you, Nicolas."

"Right." He dropped back into his chair, his mouth stretched wide in the biggest grin I'd ever seen. "You're welcome, Em."

Langley ruined the moment. "Cake time!" she declared, jumping into the air in excitement.

Groaning, Harper swept her daughter into her arms and settled her on her knee. "We already had cake, sweetie. It's late, so now it's time to go home."

"Can we bring cake home?" she asked brightly.

"No," Harper refused with a kind smile, "but you may have pancakes in the morning if you brush your teeth and go to bed like a good girl."

Rolling my eyes at my niece's antics, I took great care to slip my new watch into my bag and stretched before easing myself out of my chair. "Thanks for having us over, Mom." I didn't bother including my father in the thank you because he'd fallen asleep in his recliner at some point, his newspaper still open atop his chest.

"We miss you, Emerson," she said in a rare moment of sentimentality, rushing over to give me another hug. I cringed a little and wished desperately for a shower but said nothing.

"You too," I replied with an awkward pat to her arm. "I'll call."

"Good," she responded with a beaming smile before she turned her attention to Nicolas. "And you."

Nicolas looked cornered. "Me?" he echoed in confusion.

"You're such a wonderful boy." Looking as though she might melt with affection, she closed the distance between them and gave him a motherly squeeze. "Thanks for taking care of our Emerson."

" _Mom_ ," I hissed. "I take care of myself."

"He doesn't get enough zinc," Nicolas whispered conspiratorially. Mom laughed, and my jaw nearly dropped. How the hell had he won her over so easily?

"Make sure to bring him back with you next time," she told me as she released Nicolas. "He's a keeper." And then she was off to engulf Harper and Langley in a hug, nagging Harper affectionately that she should drop by for lunch more often.

"Bye, Mom," I said with a roll of my eyes, and waved goodbye to Harper while she was being assaulted by our mother.

"Did you hear that?" asked Nicolas with a boyish grin, ambling over to stop at my side. "I'm a keeper."

"You're a dumbass," I chided him fondly, ignoring the odd, near-galvanizing stir in my stomach, and wondered vaguely if I'd eaten too much cake. I found my coat and slid it on. "Let's go home and watch TV before I die."

He laughed, pulling his jacket on, and held the door open for me. "Okay."


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning I woke up from the single most disturbing dream I'd ever had in my life and immediately proceeded to snatch up my phone and dial a number I'd hope I'd never have to call: Speranza's home number. The seconds felt like ages, the images from my dream burning themselves across my mind, scorching the completely inappropriate thoughts permanently into my brain, and I nearly screamed in frustration when I was sent to voicemail. I felt dirty, irreparably tainted, and I needed either to take an icy shower or talk to Speranza, _right now_. I hung up and called again.

On the fourth ring, Speranza's sleep-warmed voice answered, "Emerson? Are you – it's four o'clock in the morning, are you all right?"

"No," I said, shakily, and nervously clutched a fistful of my green flannel pajama shirt. My legs were shaking, even as I paced the length of my apartment – two, four, six times, until I forced myself to sit down on the couch, my knees knocking together. "Tell me, are there any side effects for my medication I should know about?"

"Oh." Her voice was suddenly brightly, more alert, and I heard her clearing her throat, along with the rustling of cloth. Sheets, probably. "Well, yes, every medication invariably has potential side effects. The pharmacist should have given you information when you picked up the prescription. A handout or something, stapled to the bag, maybe?"

Shutting my eyes, I tried to picture the bag as I'd brought it home, opened it on my kitchen table and undoubtedly filed the medication handout somewhere, but after exactly three seconds, the blackness behind my eyelids gave way to a rather vivid depiction of my dream. I squeaked in terror and opened my eyes. "Yes, maybe, but I don't know where it is," I said, a hint of desperation coloring my voice. "Do you happen to remember anything about nightmares, maybe?"

Not that it had been a complete nightmare, but—

 _No, don't even_ think _about it_.

"Oh, dear," she said, followed by the highly recognizable beep of a microwave. It whirred merrily in the background, much to my displeasure. I was not happy about anything sounding merry at the moment. "You've been having nightmares?"

I swallowed roughly. "Just tonight."

A sigh. "You poor thing. Would you like to talk about it?"

"No!" I flushed at the mere thought of it. "That's – no. It's embarrassing. It was about Nicolas."

"Ah," said Speranza in a knowing tone that made me inexplicably angry.

"What?" I snapped.

The unmistakable clinking of a cup or mug being removed from the microwave. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make you upset. It's just that you've had an embarrassing dream about Nicolas. I think it's fairly obvious."

Unbidden, an uncomfortably warm blush sprang to my cheeks. Actually, my entire body was rather too hot already. I could feel light perspiration on my back and shoulders, and I needed to shower _right now_ , but this phone call was incredibly important, so it would have to wait a few more minutes. Squaring my shoulders, I ignored the fervent itch of dirtiness and resolved to see this conversation through before I indulged myself in a shower.

"What are you talking about?" I growled.

"You've come to care for each other," murmured Speranza lightly. "I've been meaning to start a discussion on this for a while now. It seems you've found yourself a friend. I'm very proud of you."

I wanted to be offended that she was _proud_ of me, like she was my mother and I'd just done something embarrassingly basic like tie my shoes. Somehow, though, her words infused me with a sense of warmth, and I found myself lacking the annoyance I wanted to fuel my irritation.

"I've always been capable of making friends," I pointed out.

"Of course. You've simply chosen not to. You're moving on."

I paused, contemplating that. I supposed she was right, but that didn't make my dream—my _nightmare­_ —any less terrifying.

"This isn't what I called to talk about," I said in an attempt to change the subject. "I wanted to know if my medication could cause weird dreams." Because then I would definitely want to switch. There was absolutely no way I could handle thinking of Nicolas like _that_ every night.

Speranza made a thoughtful humming noise in the back of her throat. "The two subjects are related, though, and you're avoiding it. Why is that, Emerson?"

Gripping the phone so tightly it creaked beneath my flexing fingers, I gritted my teeth and began to regret ever making this phone call. "Because," I forced out. "It's embarrassing."

"There's something else you're not telling me," she mused, and I silently cursed her for her excessive talent at picking up on all the things I didn't want her to. "You're comfortable until I bring up Nicolas. Tell me, have you had a disagreement?"

"Not since last week," I said.

"I see." She sighed. "Well, Emerson, until you decide to give me all the facts, here is my guess: It wasn't a side effect. You've been going through a lot lately, and Nicolas has been a big part of that, so it's completely natural to dream about him. You had an argument, and it's still on your mind."

"He also came to my birthday party," I offered, and then immediately regretted it. I hadn't particularly wanted to share that bit of information. It was early and my brain was still rubbing figurative sleep out of its traumatized eyes from the dream.

"Oh, _did_ he," she drawled.

I knew exactly what expression she was wearing: high eyebrows arched, one fractionally higher than the other, sunny eyes bright with a million new theories and ideas, the corner of her mouth curled ever-so-slightly, twitching, wanting to smile but knowing it was inappropriate. I hated that look. It usually meant something like dragging me to the grocery store to pay entirely with pennies.

It was an evil look.

"Yes, but it didn't mean anything," I explained quickly. "I didn't even invite him. My sister did."

"Your sister knows about him?"

I briefly contemplated throwing the phone at the wall but ultimately decided it wasn't worth the ensuing mess. "Yes. He's my friend, like you said. I'm just saying, I've been hanging out with him a lot, that's all."

"I see," she said in a tone that implied she did not actually see. "Well, maybe we can work this into our next session. But for tonight, let me get back to my theory. You've been spending a lot of time with Nicolas lately and you're having some negative reactions when I bring him up, so there's some kind of correlation there. What I'm going to have you do is a little bit different. Have you ever heard of opposite-to-emotion techniques?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, but the name seems obvious."

Chuckling, she continued, "Yes, it does, doesn't it. Well, it's pretty self-explanatory. Thoughts follow actions. Do something nice and neighborly for him, and you might find yourself feeling a little less hostile, or whatever it is you're feeling. Do you understand?"

A nod. "I'm not stupid."

"Oh, Emerson, always so prickly. Do you want some help coming up with something to do for him?"

My heart spasmed in my chest, and I shook my head fervently even though she couldn't see it. " _No_! I mean, uh, no, that's okay. I'll – I'll think of something myself."  
 

Speranza hesitated, her breath coming in little puffs against the receiver for a long time. "I really want to drag whatever you're hiding out into the open, but I don't think this is the right time."

Glancing at the clock on my microwave, I noticed that it was nearly four-thirty and nodded in silent agreement. "We can talk about it at our appointment," I suggested softly, knowing she would jump at the freely given chance to grill me without complaint.

"Lovely," she chirped, as though she'd known I would offer it. "Is there anything else bothering you, or shall we hang up 'til then?"

Dangerous, crafty woman, that Speranza.

"I think I'm good for now," I muttered, watching as Mistoffelees poked his tiny black head into the kitchen and yawned, stretching luxuriously, before he trotted up to me and began weaving through my ankles. Absently, I reached down to scratch his head and said, "I'll see you later this week."

"Goodbye, Emerson. Take care," she replied, and hung up.

I followed suit, frowning and scratching my chin as I replaced the phone in its cradle. Now I just had to figure out what to do.

* * *

The plan was to go over later once it was more of an acceptable time of morning, like eight, and thank Nicolas again for the watch. It had a square face and little black contrasting numbers, and it had instantly become my favorite. It was as though he'd somehow known I preferred gold over silver and squares over circles without even asking. Or maybe he was just observant, because I rather appreciated even numbers and nice, symmetrical shapes, and circles were associated with that nasty 3.1415926... well, best not to get started on the entire thing. It was an uneven number, anyway. I was not a fan.

My venture into the hallway began like any other: with twenty-six slams and my hand tucked inside my shirt, stretching out the sleeve. Somewhere around slam number nineteen Nicolas popped into the hallway, smirking as he leaned against the wall in a suspiciously pristine-looking white shirt and tossed his wavy black hair out of his eyes.

He waited politely until I had finished and then asked, "So, where are you headed?"

"About five feet in your direction," I said, sidling up next to him. "I just wanted to say thanks."

"No problem. Happy birthday again," he replied, and then he unexpectedly leaned forward and kissed me on both cheeks, pulling away with a smile that quickly faded when he saw my face.

"You." I was at a loss for words. The dream slammed its way to the forefront of my thoughts with brute force, and I flushed. "Did you just--?"

"It's an Italian thing," he instantly explained, holding up his hands. "And most of Europe. It was just reflex. I wasn't thinking about--" He grimaced. "You're probably freaked out now."

"Um," I said, feeling rather stunned. My cheeks were tingling, and I took two giant steps back, my hand already outstretched for my door. Nicolas's expression was, in a word, crushed, and I wanted to tell him that it had nothing to do with him and everything to do – okay, so it had a lot to do with him, but it wasn't his fault. It was my crazy subconscious's fault, and all I could think about was washing my face, but I suddenly lacked the breath to explain exactly what the hell was going on in my brain. I mumbled out a hurried, "Sorry," and then slammed the door to my apartment and raced to my bathroom sink to wash my face ten times -- no more, no less.

The phone rang in the middle of it, but my face was wet and soapy and I would have had to start it all over again if I'd stopped now. I'd laid the watch from Nicolas carefully on the sink counter, far away from the faucet, where I'd placed it to avoid getting it wet.

"Hell," I muttered to myself, wiping my face on a clean, white towel. It had probably been Nicolas calling. Hopefully he didn't think I was ignoring him. I tossed the towel in the laundry, replaced a new one on the rack, and hurried out into the hall. 

After the ritualistic twenty-six slams, I knocked on his door and hesitantly called, "Nicolas?" but there was no answer, even though I could see a yellow wash of light underneath the door. Frowning, I pulled back and jiggled my arm, the watch sliding down my arm to rest heavily on my wrist.

"Nicolas," I said again, almost desperately. It had only been a week since the last time I'd offended him to the point of social withdrawal on his part. If he didn't answer, then that meant he was really, truly hurt, and this time I hadn't even taken the opportunity to apologize or offer food.

This had definitely not been the plan.

Feeling miserable, I once again retreated into my abysmally white and boring apartment and reached for my phone. There was only one person I really wanted to call right now, but he didn't seem to want to speak to me, so I would have to settle for Speranza.

"Emerson," she greeted me with a tone of great surprise after the third ring.

"Hi," I said, biting my lip. Now that I had her on the line, I wasn't really sure what to say. Pinning the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I began fidgeting with my hands, fingernails tracing my almost raw knuckles.

Speranza blissfully did not comment on the fact that I'd called her home number and then gone dismally quiet. Instead, I heard the soft shuffling of pages and a dull thud in the background before she murmured, "What's wrong?"

After a brief moment of indecision, I decided to forego the Nicolas topic and press forward on another issue that had been bothering me lately. "I hate my medication," I confessed.

"Ah," she hummed. "All right, let's talk about that, then. What don't you like about it?"

"Well, first of all, it's not working," I snapped, suddenly annoyed. This was not exactly an enjoyable topic for me. "Secondly, I don't need it."

"You don't need it?" she repeated, and I noticed that she had tactfully overstepped my comment about the medication's ineffectiveness. "Then why were you put on it in the first place?"

I fumbled for a response. "Well. Because I needed help."

She gave a soft sigh. "Then give it time. Talk to your psychiatrist if you really hate it that much It can sometimes take a while to take full effect." She paused. "Is this about the side effects again? Did you have another nightmare?"

I shook my head violently. "No, that's not it. Just – if my medication doesn't work soon, I'm not going to be able to enjoy a normal life when I finally have it."

She hesitated. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Neither was I, actually. Frowning, I absently shook my wrist to feel the watch move against my skin and mumbled, "Never mind."

"Emerson," she said seriously. "You know you can tell me anything and I'll keep it confidential, don't you? I'm here for you."

"Yeah," I replied, although I didn't really know or trust any of that. Maybe I should have called Sheridan instead. I didn't have her number, though.

"Okay," she sighed, and it didn't sound like she believed me at all. I didn't blame her. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?"

"No," I lied, and inched my thumb over to the end button. "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

"It's quite all right."

"Have a good day," I told her before she could say anything else, or worse, pick up on the uncertainty in my voice. "I'll see you—" I quickly stole a glance at my calendar to see when my next appointment was "—later this week."

"Take care, Emerson," she softly replied, and I hung up.

"Hell," I said, dropping the phone back into its cradle, and sat on the couch to put my face in my hands. I forced myself to breathe. It was time to get off my ass, make my lunch, and force myself to go to work.

* * *

Now that Sheridan had basically pledged undying friendship to me in the form of awkward gestures and returning previously stolen office supplies, she had started a rather annoying yet endearing tradition of taking up half my desk space at lunchtime. At noon exactly, I pulled my plastic-wrapped salad out of the fridge from the break room and returned to my desk where Sheridan had pulled up a chair and was waiting with a turkey sandwich. It had become a daily occurrence lately. She grinned and waved when she saw me, and I sighed, plopping into my chair, and mustered up a weak smile in return.

"You seem grumpy today," she mused, biting into her sandwich, and I quickly pulled out two Clorox wipes and put them down in front of her to catch any crumbs or tomato guts. To her credit, instead of giving me an offended glare like most people would have, she merely graced me with a sheepish look and mumbled, "Sorry." Pausing to wipe at a smudge of mayo on her cheek, she raised her eyebrows at me and continued, "So what's up with you?"

"Nothing," I lied, wanting nothing more than to push the subject of Nicolas as far out of my mind as possible and feeling somewhat irritable that she'd brought it up. Nodding approvingly as she took another Clorox wipe and spread it on her lap like a napkin, I began unwrapping the plastic wrap from my bowl and tried to change the subject. "How are things with Dr. Demitrav?" I asked, smirking privately to myself as I finally finagled the last of the saran wrap off and picked up the meticulous plastic fork that was packaged in with the lettuce and a tiny container of dressing. We'd see how she liked people prying into her business. Not that she had known about the dream, but I needed something to distract myself from the vine-like tendrils of memories creeping into my consciousness.

"Oh, erm." Sheridan looked down and to the side at the wheels of my chair, shrugging. "It's okay, I guess. It's a lot of hard work, you know?" She laughed abruptly. "What am I saying, of course you know. Look at you." Gesturing with her half-eaten sandwich, she smiled wryly and said, "You're like, permitting me to eat at your desk and stuff. It's crazy."

Frowning, I dropped my gaze to the desk, half-covered in wipes, and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "It's not much progress, really."

She lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug, the gesture at odds with her brilliant grin. "But it _is_ progress. You get it? You wouldn't even talk to people before because they would breathe their germs on you." Her grin softened into something more sentimental. "It's really nice, Emerson. I'm proud of you."

Suddenly feeling rather embarrassed, I fumbled with my plastic fork and stabbed a few pieces of lettuce and contemplated eating them. "Yeah, thanks," I murmured, ignoring the blush I could feel creeping up my neck. I'd only ever been told that by Speranza before. It was nice if I ignored how much like a child it made me feel. "You've improved, too," I added after a moment's hesitation, lifting my eyes to catch Sheridan's. She looked stunned, but ultimately pleased.

"Thanks, I've been trying really hard." Pausing to set down her sandwich, she leaned across the desk, way too far into my personal bubble, and whispered conspiratorially, "I haven't stolen anything in like a week and a half, which is a new record for me. I've got a date tonight, so I hope I don't steal the silverware or anything."

I was probably more surprised than I should have been. To hide my reaction, I quickly stuffed the lettuce in my mouth, stupidly sans dressing, and chewed longer than strictly necessary so I could pull myself together. Sheridan seemed to be waiting for a reaction, looking at me steadily, expectantly. Clearing my throat, I set down my fork and picked up the Tupperware with the dressing, taking off the lid and drizzling light ranch over my rather bare salad. I'd only had time to wash the lettuce that morning, since washing the lettuce meant rinsing it generously no less than six times, and by the time I was satisfied it was already eight thirty.

"Well, good luck. It's, er—it's a little strange to think of you dating."

She pouted a little. "Why?"

"I don't know," I mumbled, feeling uncomfortable, and swiped a Clorox wipe over an invisible crumb. I had no idea how to put this without sounding like a complete asshat, so I was probably going to have to take the plunge straight into bastardliness. "It's just strange. I mean, I've never thought of you doing that sort of thing before. Are you even—" and here came the bastardliness "—you know, stable enough for that?"

Sheridan, to her credit, looked a lot less offended than I was expecting. She only flinched minimally and miraculously followed it up with a smirk. "Well, I was stable enough to have a giant crush on you."

"Buhhh," I said rather unintelligently, too blindsided to come up with a proper response.  I had not seen that coming. Idolization and romantic interest were very different things. "Well, that's, er. I'm not. Uh. You see…"

She merely laughed, bracing both elbows on the table, her chin resting on her hands. "It's okay, I'm over it now. I get it. You're gay, right?"

That just sent me into further verbal fumbling. Flustered, I removed my glasses and began wiping them on my pristine undershirt, meanwhile stuttering out, "Nnnno? I don't, er—I have no idea what you're talking about. That is absolutely not it. Where would you even get that idea?"

"Oh, you're _not_? Oh, God. I'm sorry, Emerson." Sitting back in her chair, she covered her mouth with her hands and looked like she was going to laugh again. "You're just so clean and well-groomed and then there's Nico—"

Oh, _God_ , of all things to bring up.

"What _about_ Nico?" I snapped, jamming my glasses back onto my face, and prepared to fight this conversation every step of the way.

"Oh, nothing," she replied in a tone that belied it was actually a very big _something_ , especially if the smirk she wore was any indication. However, as much as I wanted to know exactly what inappropriate things were going on inside her head, I would have much preferred to end the conversation there, so I chose not to pursue it.

"Good," I grumbled, and moved a few pieces of lettuce around in my salad, trying to mix it with the dressing.

After a blessed few moments of silence, she piped back up with, "But, you _know_ ," and I sighed, knowing it had been too good to be true, and she continued, "it's really nice to have someone. I'm excited about my date. You should give it a try."

I stabbed my salad and thought about how lucky she was she hadn't included 'with Nico' at the end of that sentence, or my fork possibly would have been in her eye. That dream still made me squeamish and thinking about it usually ended with crossing my legs too tightly and counting backwards from one thousand.

At my cranky silence, she prompted, "Well?"

"I'll give it a try," I lied, entirely to get her off my back, and absolutely did not think about Nicolas for the rest of the day.

* * *

My appointment with Speranza dutifully rolled around three days later, regardless of whether I wanted it to. Dreading the inevitable moment when she would flay me flesh from bone in search of answers that would undoubtedly involve Nicolas in some way, I hugged my messenger bag to my chest and counted the tiles on the ceiling in the waiting room. They were big tiles. Five columns, six rows. It should have been easy to just multiply the two together for thirty, but there were irritating halves and fourths by the walls, and I was just about to ask Carol the receptionist for a ruler when Speranza glided breezily out of an office and smiled at me.

"Hello, Emerson," she greeted me, her flashing golden eyes raking over my appearance contemplatively. "Are you ready?"

Nodding, I followed behind the sound of her high heels to the room used for our sessions. My hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically as a tight, nervous feeling settled in my chest, and I eyed critically the two chairs in the room before I chose the cleaner-looking of the two.

Speranza shut the door and gracefully seated herself across from me, a folder spilling papers onto the ground at her feet, which she nudged under her chair with her toe. She had a pen tucked behind her ear, but she didn't seem particularly concerned with taking notes yet. Instead, she kept scrutinizing me, trying to glean God only knew what from my posture or the way I kept biting my lip.

"Had a rough week?" she guessed eventually.

Letting out a soft breath that I hadn't even been aware I was holding, I nodded and allowed my messenger bag to slide a little lower on my lap. "Yes. Nicolas, um. He kissed me."

Speranza blinked very slowly, her face carefully void of shock, and unhurriedly reached up to pluck her pen from behind her ear. Bending over in her chair, she plucked the overflowing file from behind her feet and flipped to a fresh page. After pausing to scribble something down, she cleared her throat, blinked again, and looked at me. "Okay, well. That's a pretty big change. Tell me about it."

I felt my face slowly growing hot, the heat spreading from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. "It wasn't like _that_. I mean, it wasn't a real kiss. "

"Okay," she said, smiling encouragingly. "Why don't you tell me what it was, then?"

"Um." Frowning, I bit my lip and squinted at the memory. "Well, I was doing that technique you told me to try. Opposite-to-emotion, you know. I went to thank him for the watch and the party and all that, and then he did this double cheek kiss that Europeans do. You know what I'm talking about?" She nodded appropriately, and I felt myself blushing a little. "So then he looked at me and said, 'You're going to freak out now, aren't you?' And then I freaked out."

Speranza nodded and looked at me sympathetically. "And why did you freak out?"

My flush darkened as the dream rocketed through my mind yet again. "Well," I said, pulling at my collar delicately, "I had to wash my face, of course."

Up went one of Speranza's perfectly arched eyebrows. "Is that the only reason?"

"Yes," I snapped defensively, undoubtedly cementing her disbelief.

Seeming to bite back a sigh or some other equally put-upon gesture, Speranza crossed her legs and absently clicked her pen. "I can't force you to tell me anything you don't want to, Emerson, but I want you to know I can't help you if I don't know what's bothering you. I encourage you to remember all of this is strictly confidential and tell me what's on your mind."

With a defeated groan, I shut my eyes and squeezed my bag, just to have something to hold onto. "I had a sex dream about Nicolas," I confessed, cringing with shame. I couldn't even bear to look at Speranza's face.

"And how does that make you feel?" she questioned, voice carefully devoid of any judgment.

I frowned and kept my eyes closed. "Dirty?" Like that was anything new. "Confused. And angry. It's – it's wrong. I don't want to think about him like that."

"Why not?" she pressed.

I shrugged helplessly and shook my head. "He's my friend," I answered simply.

"Ah, okay," she said, her chair creaking. "Now, I know we've never talked about this before, but I feel like it's a good time to bring it up. Have you ever been in a relationship before?"

My eyes flew open and I scowled. "No."

"You seem upset. Why?" she asked softly.

I snorted. "Why do I seem upset, or why haven't I been in a relationship?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable answering," she replied, vague as always.

Frown deepening, I crossed my arms and shrugged. "I haven't been in one because I haven't _wanted_ to."

"All right. Tell me about that. What makes it unappealing?"

"I don't know," I answered, distinctly uncomfortable.

"The emotional aspect, or the physical aspect?"

"The physical," I said with a sigh, unfolding my arms. "I guess." Even though I knew, emphatically, that it was.

"Uh huh." She hid a tiny smile. "And does this all come down to thinking other people are unclean?"

"Well, partially. Yes. Entirely. People – there are _fluids exchanged_. Other people's spit would be in my _mouth_ , and that's keeping things G-rated. I don't even want to think about anything else – it's disgusting!"

"Have you considered," she began carefully, "perhaps engaging in a relationship with someone once your symptoms have subsided?"

"I haven't thought about it," I lied, mentally cursing Sheridan and her meddlesome ways.

"I think you should." She uncrossed her legs and set down her notepad on her lap, smiling patiently at me. "You know, Emerson. I've suspected Nicolas was special to you for a while. He's the only one you talk about."

"Oh?" That was actually kind of a surprise, but I didn't want her to know it. She'd probably pick it up anyway with her near-preternatural perception as always, though.

"Yes. I'm not going to tell you what you feel, but I will tell you what I think. I think you like Nicolas, are interested in him romantically, but are intimidated by a relationship. I think the physical aspect legitimately scares you not only because of germs, but because of intimacy. From what I've heard, he sounds like a very good match for you."

"I guess," I said, shrugging, and forced myself not to think about it. I needed to focus on something else. Like— "Well, what about Sheridan?"

Tilting her head, Speranza looked briefly and uncharacteristically confused before she asked, "Who is Sheridan?"

"A girl I work with. Who likes me." I paused, guiltily remembering her date, and amended, "Or liked me. I don't know."

"Okay," Speranza said smoothly, pen poised above her notes, and scribbled a few lines. "Well, what about her?"

"Isn't she a good match?" I asked, ignoring how desperate and hopeless it sounded.

"You're changing the subject, Emerson."

 _Damn_. I lowered my gaze to the floor and nearly sulked. "I thought I was doing a pretty good job."

She hid a smile behind her hand. "You were, but I'm pretty good at catching you, too."

"I noticed." Despondent, I sighed and pillowed my cheek on my fist, propping it up with my elbow on my knee. "I don't actually like Sheridan," I admitted miserably.

"I know."

Hesitantly, I raised my eyes to meet her. "You and Sheridan think I like Nicolas."

"I can't tell you who you do and don't like, Emerson, and neither can Sheridan, but I _do_ think you should keep an open mind." Sensing my building disagreement, she held up one hand and smiled indulgently. "That said, I can tell you don't want to talk about this, so we'll set it aside for later. Keeping with the subject of Nicolas, though—" she swiftly ignored my frown "—how did it go with opposite to emotion?"

"That's when he kissed me," I said dully.

"Oh." Seeming to rally herself, she shifted in her chair, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and cleared her throat. "Have you spoken to him since then?"

"No."

Up went an eyebrow. "And it's been how long?"

"Er." I flushed with shame. Poor Nicolas. I'd been avoiding him for so long. "A few days," I confessed.

"Ah." Nodding, she made another mark in her notes and then set them aside. She leaned forward and smiled. "Do you think maybe it's time to talk to him again?"

How the hell did she always make me feel like a child? Pouting (I hated to admit it, but there was no other word for what I was doing), I sank into my chair and muttered, "Yes."

"Lovely."

That was the bulk of the session. The rest of the hour was spent talking about my progress with exposure therapy, until she finally said, "Well, our time is up for today. Will you think about what I said about Nicolas? It's okay if you're not ready to explore that yet, but I'd like to get to it eventually."

"Maybe," I said, glad to be done with this conversation, and stood, gathering my bag protectively to my chest. At the bare minimum, I would go talk to Nicolas. I at least owed him that.

* * *

Predictably, Nicolas didn't answer the door when I knocked the first time, or the second time, or even the third time. I think he sensed that I was going to knock all ritualistic twenty-six times, because on the fourth try, his door abruptly swung open and his tall form was outlined by the doorframe.

"Hey, Nicolas," I greeted weakly.

He frowned. "Back to regular old Nicolas, now?"  
 

"Huh?" I asked, confused, and took a step forward, subtly wedging my foot into the apartment so he couldn't shut the door on me.

"You called me Nico last week," he pointed out.

Instantly, I pursed my lips and denied, "No, I didn't," without even thinking about whether I had, because quite frankly, if I _had_ called him something that intimate without even noticing—well, maybe Speranza was right. And I wasn't sure if I was ready for that.

"Yes, you did," he countered, crossing his arms irritably.

"I most certainly did not."

"Fine," huffed Nicolas, and he narrowed his eyes at me. "So why are you here? You haven't talked to me since you ran off. I thought you made it pretty clear that I overstepped some boundaries."

"I freaked out," I admitted bluntly, because I didn't really know any other way to go about this.

"I noticed," Nicolas replied, dark eyebrows arched, his closed off expression now poorly disguising lingering amusement beneath.

Wincing, I bunched my hands in the overly-large sleeves of my blazer that flopped over my knuckles, looking at the floor in embarrassment and shame. "Um, yeah, it was pretty bad. I'm sorry about that."

"I'm the one who should be apologizing," said Nicolas, sounding uncharacteristically dejected.

My head immediately snapped up. "No," I rushed to correct him, blushing furiously, "it wasn't—I mean, what you did, that was okay. That was fine. It was just, you know. Had you even brushed your teeth?"

When he looked at me, his blue eyes were full of something bright and hopeful, and he licked his lips before saying, "What?"

"I know, it's terrible. It's not that I think you're dirty or anything, I just…" _Do_ , I finished mentally, but I couldn't say that to him. I thought _everyone_ was dirty. It was nothing personal. "I had to go wash my face," I finished eventually.

"Oh," he said, softly, and took a step closer. He licked his lips again and leaned down, peering at my face. "Hey, are you blushing?"

"No," I snapped, scowling. "I'm—it's _warm_ in here, shut up, why are you standing so close?"

"I'm not." His mouth slowly curved into a grin, and he tilted his head. "So, what I did—when I kissed your cheek, you said that was okay?"

"Yeah," I said, not quite following.

"Then what about this?" he asked, and suddenly he had leaned down all the way and was kissing me.

Warmth burned in my chest as his lips touched mine, and I told myself I was simply too shell-shocked to stop him or push him away. Nicolas kissed like he meant it, tenderly without scaring me off, slow and careful. His hands hovered reverently by my face, respectfully not touching, the pads of his fingertips barely ghosting over the shine of my hair. His mouth was hot, warmer than I'd expected, and my eyes closed without my registering it, as I was too focused on the scorch of his lips on my skin. With my brain still eerily yet also blissfully silent, I surprised myself by kissing back, leaning into him, my arms tucked between us against our chests. I still refused to accept that Speranza was right, that maybe I wanted this but had been afraid to act, but I supposed she wasn't entirely _wrong_ , either.

And then my brain started working again.

"This isn't going to work," I gasped eventually and pulled away with no small amount of effort, keeping Nicolas's hands at bay with my elbows, my hands curled defensively against my chest.

"Oh." His expression was instantly pained – eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open with just the barest hint of white teeth. His gaze quickly fell to the floor, a disappointed blue blaze, and then flickered back up to me. And back down. And up again. Indecisively. Eventually, his lips quirked in a wry smile. "Sorry. I guess I misread that whole 'take me now, Nico' look you had going on there and thought that meant you wanted something to happen between us."

Flushing immediately, I snapped, "I had no such look!" And then, if possible, blushed even deeper as I corrected him, "And I didn't mean it like that." I lifted my hand to touch my lips in memory but remembered just in time that they were tainted and I needed to gargle as soon as possible. "That was, uh. Very nice. I meant, well. Your spit is… And our hands are… Oh, just come with me."

"Huh?"

Ignoring his feeble protest, I pulled my sleeve over my hand and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of his apartment, into my own, and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us in case Mr. Mistoffelees got curious and decided to, erm, investigate. "I've got gloves," I explained, stooping to open the cabinet underneath the sink, where I had a box of latex gloves. I picked it up, pulled out two for myself, and then held it out for Nicolas to do the same.

He just stared at me. "What is this for?" he asked dubiously.

I shook the box in annoyance. "Cleanliness!" I snapped. "I'm not letting you touch my face with your hands the way they are now."

He quirked an eyebrow. "I could wash them," he offered.

"You could. Or, we could skip the exorbitant amount of time it would take for me to supervise until you're suitably clean, and you could just wear the damn gloves."

A grin. "Or we could do that," he conceded, pulling out two gloves, and snapped them on with a wink. "Hey, these look kind of—"

"Don't even say it," I warned with a murderous glare as I pulled on my own pair. "I don't know what you're going to say, but it's going to kill the mood, and then I will kill you."

He wiggled his latex-clad fingers and laughed. "What, like this isn't ruining it already?"

"I didn't think so," I said brusquely, privately somewhat offended but not willing to completely butcher the moment by commenting. Instead, I decided to ruin it by opening my medicine cabinet and scanning down the bottom shelf on the far right where I kept my three varieties of mouthwash. One for morning, one for night, and one for when my mouth just felt dirty. I chose the latter and thrust it into Nicolas's glove-clad hands. "Use this."

He stared again. "Are you kidding?"

"Hmm, good point." I snatched it back and unscrewed the lid, smirking. "I need to go first. I've already got all your mouth germs." And that had sounded pretty childish, but I didn't particularly care – I was rather more distracted by pouring a very exact amount into the little measuring cup I kept next to the other bottles of mouthwash, and then swishing it around in my mouth for a full sixty seconds.

Nicolas spent most of that sixty seconds still staring, but eventually he laughed a little and followed suit, pouring his own portion, swishing, and leaning to spit after only fifty seconds.

"You'd better not!" I warned, wiping my mouth on a hand towel, which was then dirty and had to be set aside and replaced by a fresh one from under the sink.

"Mmmm-mm-hmm?" he asked, which I assumed meant something like 'I'd better not what?'

"Spit," I said, pointing, and narrowed my eyes. "Seven more seconds. And then you have to use this." Capping the mouthwash for him, I replaced it in the medicine cabinet and pulled out the night-time bottle and waved it cheerfully in his face.

He spit and groaned. "Em, I just want you to know, if you were anyone else, there is no way I would be doing all this."

Bristling, I unscrewed the lid and poured the proper amount, tipping the measuring cup against his lips with a snappy, "I should hope not, since it wouldn't be me."

He grinned at that, accepting the mouthwash and even letting me pour it into his mouth, which was oddly attractive.

Oh, God. I was actually doing this. I was planning to make out with my neighbor. This was insane.

Despite being busy gargling, Nicolas looked like he wanted to reply, so I growled, "Shut up, you've got thirty-four seconds left."

Thirty-three, thirty-two… A little dribble of Cinnafresh Mint came trickling out between his lips, which was quite distracting, and I wiped it away with my thumb (well, my latex-covered thumb) before I could even think about it. Nicolas raised both eyebrows at me, making me flush; I jerked my hands away and turned my back on him, studying the door.

Roughly thirty seconds later, I heard Nicolas spitting in the sink, followed by a refreshing 'aahhh!' and the sound of him picking up the new hand towel.

"Don't forget to replace it with a fresh one," I mumbled, referring to the towel, still too embarrassed to look away from the door.

"I know."

The scent of Cinnafresh Mint suddenly became stronger, and Nicolas's chin settled on my shoulder mere seconds later. He nuzzled my neck, my hair, the shell of my ear – I shivered appropriately and batted him away, turning to face him and deliver some sort of divine vengeance, but I stopped short at his somehow meltingly devious expression.

"What's that look for?" I demanded.

Nicolas merely shrugged, grin widening, and replied, "Nothing. Am I approved to kiss you yet?"

"I suppose." A sharp spark of nerves erupted in my chest, and I drew in a sharp breath before I summoned the courage to shuffle forward a few feeble steps, my face lifted towards his, chin jutted out stubbornly.

"That's good." Nicolas's eyes were warm and impossibly blue as he put his hands on my waist, kindly not making fun of the gloves as he ran his thumbs across my hipbones. His face lowered just enough that his breath ghosted across my lips, almost overpoweringly minty (which was completely my fault), and I seriously thought he was going to chicken out and back off when he finally took the last plunge, brushing a chaste kiss against the corner of my mouth.

I nearly laughed. "That's it?"

"No," he growled, pulling me nearer, close enough that our height difference became even more apparent, almost comical.

I stared directly at the pointed bottom of his chin and huffed, "Then you'd better get on with it before I decide we need fresh gloves."

"Yes, sir," he replied, taking my face in one hand so that I was looking into his eyes rather than at his jaw, and smiled beautifully.

At most other points in my life, something stupid or catastrophic would have happened to ruin the moment; Mr. Mistoffelees would have come yowling or scratching at the door; I would have verbally fumbled and said the absolute wrong thing; perhaps I would have _physically_ fumbled and taken us both crashing to the tiled bathroom floor. This time, however, I kept my mouth shut until Nicolas's was against mine, and when I opened it, it wasn't to talk. I held onto his waist to keep from falling, but also because it felt nice and he was hot and soft beneath my hands, and I mentally resolved to give Mr.  
Mistoffelees an entire can of tuna if he kept his furry butt busy for the next fifteen minutes or so.

It was probably the best moment of my life.


	10. Chapter 10

"Can I tell you a secret?" Nicolas asked.

I turned to look at him with a small tilt of my head. We were sitting side by side on the couch, not touching, but close enough that my breath disturbed the fringe of bangs resting on his forehead. His face was misleadingly relaxed; despite the lax lines of his face, I could see a dormant concern in his blue eyes.

I decided not to torture him. "Sure," I murmured, entertaining a private sort of thrill at the way his bangs ruffled when I spoke. I had never been this close to someone for such a prolonged period of time since what seemed like infancy. And I rather liked it.

"It's kind of embarrassing," Nicolas said. "Promise you won't laugh?" A grin was breaking out on his face, but it seemed forced, some part of his expression still held back by a kind of worried hesitation. I suspected it was either going to be upsetting or just phenomenally stupid.

Phenomenally stupid, probably. Nicolas certainly wasn't the only person to become flustered in the presence of someone he appreciated. Personally, I was so aware of the crinkle of plastic covering my couch and the symmetrical arrangement of remotes on my coffee table that it was a nearly tangible pain in my chest.

Although, I would have been lying if I'd said it was only anxiety causing a tightening of my chest. It was also the way Nicolas's breath still smelled minty, and how I could feel the warmth of his body radiating against my side. It wasn't altogether unpleasant.

"I promise," I said, trying to look encouraging and failing. I probably looked as serious and stuffy as always, possibly somewhat grumpy. It was my default expression. 

"Okay." Nicolas took a deep breath and looked into my eyes. It might have been romantic if he didn't look so concerned. "It's stupid. I just feel like it was kind of dishonest and that you should know."

My breath hitched. The anxiety in my chest pulsed. "What was?" 

"You know that time I got locked out of my apartment and spent the night here?"

Hesitantly, I nodded. Ridiculous images of Nicolas sneaking into my bed and molesting me filled my head, even though I knew it was a nonexistent possibility. I subtly rearranged the remotes on the table. Eventually, I forced myself to ask, "What about it?"

"Well." Red tinged his cheeks and he looked away.

"Just tell me," I blurted. "The things I'm imagining are probably much worse than what you actually did."

"The key was in my pocket the entire time," he said all in a rush, embarrassed.

I let out a long breath and almost laughed, but I stifled it when I remembered I'd promised not to. "That's it?"

Nicolas nodded, looking surprised yet relieved that I'd taken it so well. "That's it. I wanted to get to know you."

Some small part of me insisted that I should be offended or at least creeped out, but instead I was simply flattered. I felt warm. I was smiling without realizing it. "You could have talked to me."

"I did talk to you," he pointed out, scooting an inch closer so that our thighs touched. I would have protested but no actual skin was exposed so it was okay. "You weren't very nice to me."

"You could have tried showering more often," I replied wryly

Nicolas visibly balked and pulled away. I couldn't tell if he was joking, but I sincerely hoped he was, because I was utter crap at apologizing. Obviously.

"I'm kidding," I soothed, although I really wasn't. His dirty undershirts had been a severe turn off.

"No, you're not," he said. He was pouting, a cross between real hurt and playing around. It could have been worse.

I shrugged and attempted a sheepish smile. "You know me too well."

"I didn't always," he murmured, swinging his arm up to rest along the back of the couch. It was just close enough for me to feel his warmth but not close enough to touch. "It took me a while to figure out you had OCD. I might have cleaned up a little more if I'd known earlier."

"Oh," I said dumbly.

And there it was. OCD. Demitrav and Speranza had never formally put a name to it, but I'd known. And yet it was hard to hear. Not even my family brought it up, even though surely they'd known about my habits for years now. We'd just never talked about it or given it a name.

I must have ruminated on this longer than I realized because suddenly I had Nicolas's worried gaze filling my vision, his bare hand touching my cheek to turn my head. I immediately flinched away and leapt off the couch, heading straight for the bathroom. Automatically, I put my glasses on the counter, turned on the sink, and began scrubbing my face with soap. 

"Emerson?" Nicolas's voice followed me into the bathroom. "You okay?"

I was too busy washing my face to reply. Belatedly, I wished I'd closed and locked the door behind me, and I blindly fumbled with my foot to kick it shut. I kicked Nicolas instead.

"Ouch," he hissed.

I raised my head long enough to mutter, "Sorry."

"It's okay," he said, and I heard the rustle of the shower curtain as he presumably sat on the edge of the tub. "Did I say something wrong?"

 _Yes_ , I thought.

"No," I said, reaching under the sink for a clean towel to dry my face with. With my other hand, I grabbed the towel already hanging on the rack and used it to turn off the faucet before I tossed both of them into the hamper in the corner. When I looked at Nicolas, his hair was hanging in his face, and he was looking at me from underneath a black half-curl with raised eyebrows. "What?" I asked.

"You're a horrible liar," he pointed out.

Sighing, I leaned back against the bathroom counter and crossed my arms, frowning at the floor. "It makes me uncomfortable when people talk about my disorder."

"No kidding," he drawled.

"Shut up."

Nicolas rolled his eyes, and then wordlessly gestured for me to continue.

"There's nothing else to say," I muttered, shifting my hip against the counter. "Nobody has ever talked about it, ever."

His eyes widened. "Not even your family?"

I snorted. " _Especially_ not my family."

Suddenly, Nicolas looked sympathetic, almost tender, and reached out to brush his thumb over my knuckles. "I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal," I said, pulling away, and immediately regretted it when Nicolas's expression fell. I tried to recreate his warm look by spilling personal details as fast as I could think of them. "My parents don't believe in mental illness. They think I don't have enough self-discipline. We've always known I was different, but we didn't know what it was. I never would have even gone to see Dr. Speranza if my job hadn't been in danger."

"Your job was in danger?" he asked, staring.

Oh, Jesus, I shared one detail too many.

"A little," I admitted, turning pink up to my ears.

"Isn't it illegal to fire someone because of mental illness?"

"That doesn't really stop people, first of all, but second of all, I didn't tell them."

"Emerson." Nicolas reached for me, but I dodged away, slipping past him and back into the living room.

"I really don't want to talk about it," I snapped, wishing for a subject change, and dropped onto the couch and folded my arms peevishly. I knew this was a topic that needed to be breached eventually, but it was scarcely a few hours into our relationship, if I could even call it that, and I wasn't ready for the big discussions yet.

"Emerson," Nicolas said again, following me, and I braced myself, prepared for more nagging or another attempt for physical contact. Instead, he sat gingerly on the other side of the couch and sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed it when you said you were uncomfortable about it."

"It's fine," I said, even though it obviously wasn't.

"It's really not," Nicolas murmured, scooting closer, and stared at the side of my face so hard that I started to blush.

"Well, I forgive you."

"Do you really?" he asked, leaning closer to meet my eyes.

When I looked up, the force of his concern and sincerity nearly knocked the wind out of me, and I nodded and was surprised to find I meant it. "I'll get over it."

"Good," he said, beaming, and drew back to his side of the couch. He threw his arm over the back of it, hand dangling for Mistoffelees to jump for and arch against, and kept looking at me. "I'd really hate to mess things up between us."

"Can't mess things up more than I already have in the past," I joked.

"I could," he said, making me pause with concern, but he quickly eased my worry with a smile. "But I won't. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

He lifted his hand, stretching his arm out across the back of my couch, and brought his fingers as close to my shoulder as he could without touching. "I never do."

* * *

"Hey, Emerson."

Startled, I jumped and knocked over the Purell bottle by my elbow, cursing as I bent to pick it up. Sheridan was standing in front of my desk, head down, wearing a pale and obviously forced smile. When I didn't respond, too taken aback by her downcast mood to think of something to say, her smile faded and she turned to walk away.

"Er, wait," I said, pumping a squirt of Purell into my palm and waving for her to come back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you. Are you okay?"

Sighing, Sheridan pulled up her skirt to seat herself on the corner of my desk, her fiery hair hanging in her face, the bright color oddly juxtaposed with her dejected demeanor. "No."

I frowned, searching my memory for what could have happened. My eyes narrowed. "Did your date not go well?"

"Kind of," she said, planting her hands on my desk to lean back on her elbows. She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. "He hasn't called."

I resisted the urge to start cleaning my desk. "How long has it been?"

"Two days."

"Ah." I looked down at my laptop, trying to think of useful advice. I'd never been in that situation. Well, unless Nicolas counted, but we didn't have to call each other. He'd stayed until late night television came on and then I'd seen him outside my door the next morning. Completely normal.

Sheridan glanced down at me, raising her eyebrow as though to encourage whatever I was going to say, and then did a double-take. "Hey, are you blushing?"

"Uh." If I wasn't before, I definitely was now. Flustered, I clicked around the different documents I had open, pretending to be distracted. "No, it's—well, yes, but it has nothing to do with you."

Her mood seeming to improve, she raised her other eyebrow and smirked. "Either you were thinking naughty thoughts about my date, or you have your own love life to think about."

I cleared my thought and shut my laptop with a loud snap. "It's nothing to do with that."

She remained dubious. "If you say so."

I graciously ignored that. "Back to the topic at hand. Two days is pretty normal, but if it's more than that, I don't know what to say. Did you do anything that could have scared him off?"

Sheridan looked away and ducked her head. "Um."

"Sheridan," I pressed.

Wordlessly, she reached into the inner pocket of her suit jacket and produced a worn, brown leather wallet. Clearly not hers. She held it out to me, and I grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk and took it with a frown.

"Please tell me this is not your date's wallet."

Eyes downcast, she nodded, hands now folded in her lap.

I sighed. "Well, stealing your date's wallet is usually a good way to get him to not call back. Does he know you stole it?"

"No," she said softly. "I thought he might think he lost it so he'd be sure to call me again. Although—" she nodded toward the wallet "—I'm pretty sure he wasn't planning on it, because he gave me a fake name. Look at the license. He told me his name was John."

Both curious and a little outraged on Sheridan's behalf, I opened the wallet to the clear panel where the driver's license was displayed and suddenly lost all color. My heart stopped. My hands shook, and I dropped the wallet.

"Emerson?" Sheridan was on her feet on an instant, bracing her hands on my shoulders. "Are you okay? What is it?"

"It's nothing," I lied, staring at the wallet that still lay open on my desk. I was too horror-struck to even care that she was touching me. The face that stared back at me from the photo was disturbingly familiar, and the name printed on it was almost enough to make bile rise in my throat. Jordan Lynch. Half-heartedly, I looked back up at Sheridan and managed to mutter, "He just looks like a jerk."

"He was pretty nice, actually." Sheridan reached over, tracing Jordan's face through the plastic cover. "And good in bed," she added mournfully.

"Oh, God," I said, shoving the wallet off my desk. "Things I did not need to hear."

"I really thought he was it," she whispered, clearly distraught. Unshed tears shone in the corners of her eyes as she reached over to pick up the wallet.

Guilt hit me in a wave all the way up to my ears. Did I have an obligation to tell her Jordan was actually my dirtbag brother-in-law, or would that just make things worse?

"Look, I'm sure he'll call," I said, the words tasting stale and mendacious. "He has to, even if he doesn't want to."

Sheridan looked unconvinced, but she said, "Yeah," and tucked the wallet back into her suit jacket pocket. Her lips turned up in a sad mimicry of a smile. "He said he would be out of town the rest of this week, so maybe he's waiting until he's done traveling?"

At that, a cold chill seeped into the back of my neck as I realized something: Jordan was supposed to be overseas. What was he doing in New York sleeping with my coworker?

"Yeah, maybe," I said eventually, opening my laptop again. Under the guise of working, I opened my work e-mail and started a new message to Harper. I needed to make sure Jordan was still supposed to be overseas, because while infidelity was still enough to make me see red – and I _was_ going to have to tell Sheridan and Harper about it – lying about where he was seemed more suspicious. I'd always known Jordan was a dick, but something about the situation told my reporter side that there was more to this story.

"Well," Sheridan said, apparently sensing that I was done with our talk, "thanks for listening, Emerson."

"No problem." I tried to smile and ignore the guilt churning around in my stomach. "Sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

"It's okay. Good luck with whatever you're working on."

"Yeah, thanks."

* * *

Coming home was exactly the same as it had always been and yet completely different. The walk to the door was the same, as was the way that Nicolas opened his door and leaned against the wall when he heard my footsteps, but that was where the similarities and differences began to blur. His eyes were startlingly blue, shiny beneath the dark curl of his bangs, and his smile was soft and warm – he'd always looked like that, but now I understood why.

"Hey, Em," he said, smile widening, and pushed away from the wall. He touched my arm, and all similarities ended.

"Hi, Nico," I said, purposely trying out the feel of his nickname in my mouth and finding myself pleasantly surprised. It felt natural. His eyes crinkled and his hand tightened on the jut of my elbow, holding my arm as my hand busied itself with unlocking the door. My skin felt both tingly and itchy beneath my jacket, a combination of _what if I contract a terrible disease and we both die and I infect everyone at work and it's all my fault_ and the simple fiery enjoyment of his touch.

Both reactions won. I shed my suit jacket once we were inside, shut the door – just once, once is enough, Emerson, just leave it and see – and smiled at him, feeling my heart swell when he smiled in return.

"So," Nicolas began as he dropped onto the couch in a move of familiarity that thrilled me as much as his smile, "how was work?"

My joy stalled, hiccupped, and dispersed. I frowned, pushing my shirt up to my elbows, and went to the bathroom to wash my hands.

"Em?" Nicolas called, sounding worried.

"It was fine," I yelled back hoarsely, almost strangled by the lie.

"Uh huh." Trailing behind me, Nicolas took up his usual position in the doorway, arms folded, and raised a disbelieving eyebrow at me in the mirror. "So what happened?"

I hesitated, scrubbing my hands to appear as though I were concentrating on something other than the gut-churning remembrance that my brother-in-law was an asshole. "Nothing."

Nicolas sighed. "So that's the way it's gonna be."

Frowning, I used a clean towel to switch off the faucet and dried my hands. "What?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Us. With your hiding things from me and my having to drag everything out of you bit by bit."

"No," I said with a sense of urgency I wasn't even aware I had, reaching out to take him by his forearm, clenching my fingers against the thoughts of _what if what if what if_. "It's just private. Family stuff."

Nicolas didn't look any less dubious. "Family stuff at work?"

God, it did sound like an excuse. "Yes," I replied, pulling him closer despite the way it made my fingers itch.  His eyes flickered but remained unconvinced. "That's why it's complicated. I don't know what to do."

Finally, Nicolas's gaze softened, and he slipped both arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest for a hug. I stiffened at first, sucking in a surprised breath, but the smell of his hair and his soap-laced skin calmed me, and I relaxed against him amongst the mental cacophony of thoughts. _What if, what if_ , but none of those things were happening; Nicolas was holding me, and, underneath the terror, I wanted him to.

"Tell me about it," Nicolas murmured, rubbing soothing circles on my back. "Maybe I can help."

"Maybe if you can make my brother-in-law mysteriously disappear," I muttered bitterly before I could stop myself.

To Nicolas's credit, there was only a slight pause in his ministrations. He widened the circle of his touch and nuzzled the top of my head. I caught myself before I could jerk away. "What did he do?"

"He…" I trailed off, biting my lip, and wondered if it was okay to tell this to Nicolas before Harper. Truthfully, I didn't want to be the one to tell Harper, because I knew it would crush her, and she might hate me for telling her. But then again, she might hate me if she found out I _didn't_ tell her, and what if I had a moral obligation--

"Emerson," Nicolas interrupted me with a gentle shake. "What did he do?"

Dropping my gaze to the floor, I forced myself to say, "He cheated on Harper."

A sharp intake of breath was the only sign of Nicolas's surprise. "Does she know?"

"No," I said, and then miserably added, "And it was with Sheridan."

"Oh, God."

"I know. It's awful, and I don't know what to do," I groaned and hid my face against his shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeped through his shirt and into my cheek, battling against the undercurrent of worries about all the terrible things that might happen. I swallowed and tried to bury the thoughts under how much I liked Nicolas, and how nice this would be without my problems.

"I'm sorry, Em." Gently, Nicolas lifted my chin and kissed my forehead. "You have to tell her."

"Who?" I muttered into his shoulder, clenching my hands in his shirt against the tingle his kiss left on my skin. I wasn't sure if it was enjoyable or unpleasant. "Harper, or Sheridan?" I made myself ask to distract myself.

"Both."

"I don't want to tell either of them," I protested, even though I knew he was right.

"I know you don't," he murmured, tightening his arms around me, and rested his chin affectionately atop my head. "Why don't you talk to your therapist about it when you see her on Friday?"

"Ugh."

Nicolas pulled away to give me a bewildered look. "What's wrong with that? I thought you liked her."

"She's a devil woman," I said, even though I was quite fond of her.

"How is that?" he laughed.

"She makes me talk about you."

"Ohh?" He arched an eyebrow and grinned at me rakishly. "Does she, now? Maybe I owe her a thank you for finally talking some sense into you."

"Shut up," I said and pushed him away. I could tell from the heat of my face that I'd turned red all the way up to the tips of my ears.

"Gladly." Still grinning, Nicolas reached for me, but I ducked away.

"If you're going to kiss me, you still have to brush your teeth and rinse."

He groaned. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," I said, half-expecting him to disagree and start an argument that would blow up in our faces, but instead he trudged obediently into the bathroom. I smiled after him at the thought that someone was actually willing to put up with all my crazy bullshit. For me.

* * *

"How have you been, Emerson?" Speranza began on Friday at six o'clock sharp, legs crossed, seated in her usual chair in our usual room. The familiarity was most appreciated.

"Honestly?" I frowned and looked at the ceiling. "I don't know. Really, really good, but also really, really bad."

"Tell me about it."

I snorted. "I knew you'd say that."

She smiled and motioned with her pen for me to continue.

"Well, first of all, I guess, you were right about me and Nico."

Speranza raised her eyebrows, and when I looked down I could see her scribbling down a note about the usage of a nickname. She caught me looking and angled her notes away from me. "How is that?" she asked.

"You know what I mean."

Grinning, she made another note and said, "Yes, I do. I don't want to presume too much, so tell me, are you dating now?"

I nodded. "I think so, yeah."

Speranza put down her pen and notebook so slowly and carefully that I thought maybe that had been the wrong answer, but she surprised me by clapping and beaming at me warmly. "Congratulations, Emerson. That's the first step down one of many very long roads."

"Gee, I feel so optimistic when you put it like that," I drawled, but I couldn't fight the smile that was threatening to split my face.

"I'm very proud of you," she said, and she looked like she wanted to hug me but respectfully and professionally kept herself in check.

"Thanks," I replied, truly meaning it, and tried to prevent a darkening expression when my mind inevitably wandered to the other subject pervading my thoughts. "Unfortunately, I've also got a large family issue, and I need your advice."

Spreading her hands, Speranza gazed at me earnestly and murmured, "That's why I'm here."

"Well." I took a deep breath, placed my hands flat on my thighs, and wiped off my sweaty palms. I felt guilty talking about this with yet another person, but I told myself that it was justified. She was my therapist, and I needed her guidance.

"Emerson?" she prompted softly.

"Right," I said, nodding. "Sorry. Um. The thing is, I found out my brother-in-law is cheating on my sister with a coworker, and the coworker is one of my only friends, and I really don't know what to do."

"Ah, I see." Judging by the subtle widening of her sunny eyes that was not the response she'd been expecting.

"So that's why I need you."

Speranza regarded me thoughtfully, the corners of her mouth tightening but neither smiling nor frowning. "If this were happening to someone else, what would you tell them to do?"

"Don't," I snapped, holding up a hand to forestall her. "This is serious. I don't need psychobabble. I need advice."

Her expression flickered. "Emerson," she said softly, uncrossing her legs to lean closer to me. "I know this is hard for you, but my job is to make you capable of finding your own answers. I am first and foremost your psychologist."

"Right," I said, feeling strangely disappointed even though I understood her logic, and fixed my eyes on the canvas art of a winter landscape on the wall above her head.

Speranza frowned. "Please don't be disappointed. I'd still like to help you."

"Fine." I shut my eyes and forced myself to reconsider her question. "If I were someone else, I'd tell me to inform them both separately and not name names in case there's a cat fight. Jordan's to blame, not either of them."

Her head dipped in a nod. "So this isn't so much an issue of what to do, but how to do it."

It made so much sense when she put it like that.

"So are you going to prod me along until I figure out how to do it, too?"

Her eyes glinted in a way that told me the thought had definitely crossed her mind, but luckily she said, "Not this time, no. Let's do a little bit of role-playing to help you figure out what to say."

"Oh, God," I said, shutting my eyes and rubbing the bridge of my nose.

Speranza's soft laughter reached my ears. "It's not as bad as it sounds. It will help. By the time we're done here, you'll know exactly what to say."

"Great." Politely, I dredged up a smile, but I knew that having the right words wouldn't make them any easier to say.


	11. Chapter 11

Sheridan seemed the easier choice to tell first, since I was merely ruining the idea of a romance born of a one night stand and not, say, the marriage to a man she'd loved and had a child with. I consoled myself that, in theory, she wouldn't take the news as hard and I wouldn't have to feel as bad. In theory.

Good thing I went into journalism and nothing theory-heavy, like astrophysics.

"I can't fucking believe I was that _stupid_ ," she raged, picking up the stack of disposable coffee cups and hurling them at the wall. They didn't seem to scatter quite as spectacularly as she'd hoped, because she stormed over and stomped on them with palpable malice. One became speared on the heel of her spiky boots.

I had inched myself into the corner to watch her work through her understandable fury. I was too afraid of earning her considerable wrath to say anything more than my initial admission that Jordan was not only married, but my brother-in-law. Steve Pattiz, tattletale and germ-wielding nemesis from my first day at work, came to the doorway of the break room. He took one look at what was going on and had the same idea; he slowly backed out and then ran.

Smart man. I wished I could do the same.

"He finally called, you know," Sheridan was saying as she finished demolishing the cups. She looked at them with an expression horrifyingly close to tears and abruptly sad in the middle of the wreckage, legs straight out in front of her, and began gathering up the carnage. "He said he wanted to meet me," she continued mournfully, and gave a suspicious sniff. "I thought he wanted to go out again."

"Pardon?" I said, sounding somewhat strangled.

She threw the ruined cups one by one into the trash can. "He's on his way here."

My hands clenched and my stomach felt like it had filled with ice. "Right now?"

Nodding, Sheridan wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Shit," I said, finding two napkins so I could squat next to her and help her clean up.

"If he thinks I'm going to talk to him, he's crazy." She straightened, seeming to draw her anger to her again, and braced herself on my shoulder to stumble back to her feet. She dug through the pocket of her blazer and pulled out Jordan's wallet, scowling. "He probably just called for _this_."

I stared up at her, at a loss for any sort of comfort. The best I could come up with was blunt honesty. "Most likely. I've always thought he was an asshole."

Her expression hardened, her mouth a ruthless pale slash and her eyebrows furrowed, followed by the baring of her teeth. "Well, there's no way I'm seeing him."

"Um," I said, cringing away from her animalistic ire. "Okay. I'm sorry, Sheridan."

"It's not your fault," she muttered, opening Jordan's wallet and relieving it of all the cash inside.

"Sheridan?" I piped up hesitantly.

" _What_?" she snapped.

"Should you really be stealing from him?" I asked, finishing up with the cups and pushing myself to my feet a safe distance away from her.

"He made me feel like a whore, so I'm just taking my payment." Sheridan snapped the wallet shut and tossed it in my direction. It bounced off my stomach and hit the floor.

I stared down at it. "And I'm guessing you want me to give it to him since you don't want to see him?"

"If you don't mind," she said in a voice that implied it would be very, very unpleasant if I did mind.

And I did mind, actually. I didn't want to face Jordan and say, _Hey, bro, I know you're surprised to see me, but Sheridan is my friend and she's too pissed to even see your face. Here's your wallet back. Don't worry about the missing fifty bucks._ I didn't like confrontation, and I especially didn't like confrontation with acerbic brother-in-laws with military training.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the guts to say no, and Sheridan took my silence as assent.

"Thanks, Em." She offered me a forced smile through her anger and turned in a circle, surveying the room to make sure she hadn't broken anything else.

"Sure." Cringing, I found another napkin to pick up the wallet with. It wasn't going to be fun, but I would find some way to deal with it.

* * *

Jordan appeared in the doorway, jaw clenched as he rubbed one hand over his short-cropped hair. It had grown out from the crew cut I was used to, and he was wearing casual clothes I had never seen before, but it was still undeniably Jordan. I took a deep breath and hunched my shoulders, feeling my heart pound as the possibilities of disaster hit me all at once.

Jordan scanned the room, back ramrod straight and eyes cold, obviously searching for Sheridan. He wouldn't find her; she was crying in the bathroom, last I checked. But I was at my desk, tucked away slightly in the corner, within running and hiding distance from the break room. I could just make it quick, and then none of this would be my fault; Sheridan wouldn't be in the bathroom with her heart breaking, Jordan wouldn't maim me, and Harper wouldn't have to sift through the remnants of a shattered marriage. If my legs would start moving, if my hands would stop shaking, if my heart would just get out of my throat and make it a little easier to breathe...

Too late. He'd seen me. I didn't know how I knew -- it was impossible to hear anything over the noise of the newsroom, reminiscent of one of my large college lectures before class started -- but I knew. He seemed to waver, leaning on one foot toward the door. Hesitating, maybe. Did he want to leave and hope I hadn't seen him, hadn't recognized him? Or did he want to confront me and make sure I didn't know anything, wouldn't tell Harper that he was state-side?

Feverishly, I willed him to walk away. I wouldn't say anything, if only he'd spare me the confrontation. But our eyes met; a muscle in his jaw twitched, and he nodded to me. Weakly, my hand still shaking, I raised the wallet in the air and waved with it. It was still wrapped in the napkin.

Jordan showed no sign of surprise, but he immediately strode over to me. His footsteps seemed like gunshots even in the oppressive noise of the room. I sat frozen in my chair for a moment before common sense caught up with me and I scrambled to my feet.

"Emerson," he said evenly, one side of his mouth curling up into a smile that looked more chilling than friendly. "I didn't know you worked here."

"Uh, yeah." I could feel sweat forming along my hairline and resisted the urge to flee to the bathroom and wipe it away. "I got transferred here while you were overseas."

"I see." Coolly, Jordan's gaze dropped to the wallet in my hand, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I see you found my wallet."

I flushed. This conversation was the last thing I wanted to have right now. "I know Sheridan," I explained, hating the quaver in my voice. Jordan was the one at fault here, not me.

Not that you could tell from his reaction. He merely blinked, and then smiled, as though we were discussing a mutual friend. "Sheridan, huh," he drawled, placing a hand on my upper arm. It seemed like a friendly, almost intimate gesture until his fingers turned into a vice. My skin crawled for entirely new reasons -- danger, fear, impending doom. They sounded like all the same reasons, but the way Jordan's fingers dug into my arm said it was definitely not all in my head.

"Jordan?" I questioned. The fear was evident in my voice, and, as a soldier, I was sure Jordan had noticed.

Jordan lowered his voice to a hiss, "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

Oh, God, he was going to kill me. If I went with him, he was going to use some top secret military move to break my neck and then dump my body in the Hudson. He'd take his wallet back and then the only evidence that he'd ever been in the states and not overseas would be Sheridan's word, and a jury would be disinclined to believe a crazy klepto. Jordan was going to murder me, and he was going to get away with it, and all I could do was stare at him, open-mouthed, and make a terrified whine in the back of my throat.

"Forget it," Jordan snorted, jerking my arm and forcing me to walk with him. "We'll go outside."

"Outside?" I parroted, terrified and foolish. I now had a horrible mental image of being brutally murdered in an alley. Alleys in New York were never good news.

Jordan seemed to know where my thoughts were going. "Relax," he said, smiling at waving to my coworkers as he dragged me to my death. "I just want to talk."

"Talk," I repeated, stumbling.  He pushed open the door to the stairs and I knew with a sinking feeling in my gut that he wasn't humoring my fear of elevators. He was avoiding security cameras. 

"Are you capable of doing anything other than repeating every word I say?" he snapped as we finally cleared the final flight of stairs and he pulled me through a door.

"Um." All I could do was stare at him in terror.

"Great, that's a no."

We'd taken a side exit out of the building, directly into the narrow alley between the newspaper and the bakery next door. It was chilly and overcast with the heavy scent of rain in the air, mixing with the smell of bread and coffee. Without warning, Jordan shoved me face-first into one of the brick walls so hard that it completely knocked the air out of my lungs and left me gasping for breath. My cheek stung.

"Jordan," I said hoarsely, the panic so intense that I felt almost weightless. I could run, I should run, but I couldn't move. "Don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything," he said, even as he placed his hand on the back of my head and pressed my face harder into the wall. If he didn't murder me here, I was surely going to catch something from the grimy alley bricks and die anyway.

I clamped my lips together and tried not to breathe.

"Listen, I don't want to hurt you," he said, his voice startlingly close to my ear. His free hand found the wallet, still clutched desperately in my fingers, and he pried it away. "I don't know how much you know, but so long as you keep your fucking mouth shut, nothing has to happen. Have you told anyone anything?"

I tried to say no, but my voice refused to come out. I had to shake my head, scraping my face against the brick. It hurt.

"Good." Jordan gentled his touch. "Keep it that way. It would kill Harper. And think of how it would affect Langley. You don't want to ruin their lives, do you?"

Somehow, I managed to find my voice again. "No."

"Good," he said again, and let go of me. I turned around to see him putting his wallet in his back pocket. His jaw was set and his eyes were hard. "Don't get me wrong. The only reason I don't want to hurt you is because it would upset Harper. But if you fuck up things for me and Harper is out of the picture, that's a different story."

My sister had married a maniac. I was surprised I hadn't wet myself yet. "I understand."

Jordan raked his intense gaze over my face, frowning. "You've got scratches."

"I'll lie," I said, too quickly. Anything to get away from him. "I fell in a bush in the park. I don't care. I--I scrubbed too hard and scratched myself. It's happened before, on my hands."

"Right," he said, somewhat sourly, as he seemed to recall some of my more eccentric habits. "Clean yourself up, then go back to work. I was never here. Sheridan must have read the name wrong on that license. Wrong guy. You returned it, end of story. We clear?"

I nodded fervently, inching back toward the door. "Clear," I agreed.

"I hope so," he said, pausing to put a hand on my arm, squeezing the same painful spot that was doubtlessly already bruising. "Don't think I won't find out if you tell."

"I have no doubt." And the terrifying thing was, I really didn't.

* * *

I followed Jordan's instructions to the letter. Climbed back upstairs, ducked into the bathroom, ignored the sound of Sheridan sniffling in the ladies' room, and washed my face. The scratches were red and I had no antibiotic ointment with me. I spent the better part of the day worrying that they would get infected, and stopped by the drugstore on my way home to buy alcohol wipes and ointment, applying them on the walk to my building. I could feel people staring at me, but I ignored them and lengthened my stride.

I thought maybe I could get away with hiding it, put some bandages on my face and come up with a convincing lie before I saw anyone. When I got to my hallway I thought I might actually pull it off, but the moment I turned my key in the lock, Nicolas poked his head into the hall.

"Em?" he said, walking up behind me. From the corner of my eye, I could see him smile as he leaned against the wall and looked at me. "I thought I heard you out here. How was work?"

"It was okay," I lied. I kept my back to him so he couldn't see my face. Maybe I could get inside and into the bathroom before Nicolas noticed anything amiss. Not that he wouldn't ask about the bandages afterward. Dammit. the flaw in the plan.

"Really?" he asked, following me as I opened the door and went into my apartment. Misty – Nicolas had gotten me hooked on that damn nickname for Mr. Mistoffelees – meowed and trotted over to his food bowl expectantly.

"Yeah, why?" I went to the utility room where I kept Mistoffelees's food and shook the appropriate amount into his bowl, thankful for the distraction. Nicolas made himself comfortable on the couch, apparently settling down to wait while I finished my regular check of the apartment. He stretched his legs out with his feet courteously underneath and not on top of the coffee table, picking up the television remote but not actually switching it on yet. He turned the remote over in his hands, frowning and looking thoughtful.

Eventually, he said, "I don't know. You just seem off." He glanced at me over his shoulder and then did a double take. "What the—did something happen to your face?"

I cringed. I knew I couldn't have hidden it, but this was still going to be an uncomfortable conversation. "I just, um, washed it a little too hard at work," I said, fervently wishing I was a better liar.

"Let me see it," Nicolas insisted, pushing himself to his feet. He walked over to where I still stood by Mistoffelees's bowl, frowning, and reached out for my face with his fingertips.

Without thinking, I jerked away. I must have been too shaken to deal with skin contact after what happened. At Nicolas's offended look, I blurted, "Gloves."

The way my voice shook must have convinced him that now was not the time to push the issue. He just nodded and fetched the gloves from the pantry. I was somewhat touched that he'd remembered. Pulling the gloves on with a snap, he returned and took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face from side to side with a critical yet gentle eye.

"This is from washing your face," he said, the lines of his mouth tightening. Whether with disbelief or disapproval, I couldn't tell.

Unable to bear the expression, I squeezed my eyes shut and lowered my head. "Yes."

Softly, Nicolas brushed his thumb over my lower lip, then sighed and dropped his hand. "I thought we had a talk about your hiding things from me," he muttered. I could hear him stripping the gloves from his hands and pitching them in the trash.

Flinching, I opened my eyes. "I know."

"So you admit that you're lying."

"It's complicated." The need to have something to do in combination with the unpleasant sting in my cheeks propelled me into the bathroom, where I rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a box of Band-Aids.

"Complicated, huh," Nicolas's voice floated after me. "Complicated like family issues?"

"This is different," I said as I peeled the plastic away from the adhesive side and carefully positioned the bandage on my face.

"Oh, yeah?" Not to be deterred, Nicolas stood behind me, his face reflecting angrily in the mirror, and crossed his arms.

"Yes," I snapped, not sure where the sudden hostility was coming from, or perhaps all too aware. I'd just been assaulted and threatened by someone who was legally considered my family, and all I wanted to do was spill the entire story to Nicolas like I'd eventually done before, but Jordan's words echoed in my head, haunting.

 _Don't think I won't find out_.

If I told Nicolas, something horrible would happen. It was like an obsession times ten, made exponentially worse by its chilling reality.

Eyes narrowing, Nicolas exhaled sharply through his nose like an irritated animal and turned on his heel. I assumed he was going to storm out of the apartment, so I was happy to simply hear the thump of his body settling back down on the couch, followed by Mistoffelees's trill as he presumably whored himself out for belly rubs.

Sighing in relief, I finished up in the bathroom, washed my face, set out new towels, and made my way out to the living room. Nicolas seemed to be content lavishing affection upon Mistoffelees, so I went about checking the stove, making sure the door had closed properly, and throwing the lock. I could feel Nicolas's eyes on me, so I turned to smile weakly in apology for my outburst -- it was Jordan's fault, not his -- but I was dismayed to find that his expression was still flinty and unwelcoming.

"What's wrong?" I asked, sitting on the couch next to him, as close as I dared.

He laughed humorlessly. "You're kidding, right? You're hiding something from me again and you just want me to be okay with it? That's not on, Em."

"It's nothing personal," I said, steeling my reserve. "I just can't tell you, is all. It doesn't involve you. As long as I keep it to myself, I'll be okay."

Suspicion passed over his face like a cloud covering the sun. "Now what part of that doesn't sound right?"

"It's not like that," I protested. "It's not -- this isn't just in my head."

Nicolas frowned. "Then what? Did something happen?"

I'd said too much again. I abruptly got to my feet, went to the kitchen, and banged around in the cabinet under the sink. Cleaning, that would distract me.

"No," I said eventually, and then chewed my lip, because the lie didn't quite sit right in my stomach. Unwrapping a new sponge, I belatedly realized that I'd lied to Jordan, too; I _had_ already told someone what happened. Nicolas. Did that make it okay to tell him more?

"You look like something happened," Nicolas pointed out.

I continued thinking. Nicolas already knew the worst of it. Unless Jordan was monitoring my apartment, specifying the details couldn't make it any worse, could it? Logic said no; the banging in my chest and the ache in my fingers are I scrubbed the counter said yes.

"I just had a hard day," I whispered.

"Is that the truth?"

At least that was easy enough to answer honestly. "Yes."

"Sheridan?" he guessed.

Once again, not entirely a lie. "She destroyed all the paper cups in the break room."

"Oh, Em," Nicolas sighed and walked over to me. He placed one hand over mine to still my scrubbing – I'd put gloves on before unwrapping the sponge, so I just looked up at him, keeping my expression carefully blank.

"What?"

He shook his head and smiled crookedly. "Nothing. I'm sorry. I should have believed you."

Great. Of all the things to say. Now I felt even worse.

"Don't worry about it." I peeled his hand away from mine and resumed rubbing down the counter. After this, I would hit the sink, then the stove, maybe even the burners. It had been a while since I'd cleaned out the refrigerator, too. Nothing in the kitchen seemed to gleam as whitely as it had a week ago.

* * *

Unfortunately, when I'd resigned to speak to Sheridan about the matter, I'd also called Harper and asked her to do lunch on Saturday. Canceling would look suspicious, so I had no choice but to head up to The First Watch for what I supposed was technically considered brunch.

Pushing open the door, I was hit by the overly sweet smell of waffles and syrup. I picked out Harper's eye-catching blue coat and mop of blonde hair at a table and ducked awkwardly past the hostess, lowering my head and rushing by. Harper lifted a hand in greeting as she noticed me and pushed out a chair with her feet.

I delicately didn't mention that I hated feet and shoes and pulled out a second chair for myself and pushed the other one in.

"Hi, Harper," I greeted her, forcing a smile, and looked around for a waiter or waitress to postpone the conversation. I still hadn't decided what I was going to tell her in place of the Jordan fiasco. Some fabricated opportunity at work that could mysteriously fizzle out in a few weeks.

"Hi, Em," she said softly, picking up the water glass already set at the table and running her fingertip along the edge. "How've you been?"

I frowned. "Okay," I said, watching her carefully. "How about you?"

A sigh. "You always know me so well. I know you said you had to tell me something, but I have some news, too." Her eyes were glassy and wet, eyelashes bare of mascara for the first time I'd seen in years. She'd swept her honey-blonde hair up in a messy ponytail, her bangs pushed behind her ear; even at her most unkempt, she still looked beautiful. I was proud to be her brother.

Whether she'd be proud to be my sister, time would tell. I'd asked her to lunch to tell her about Jordan, and now I was going to lie to her face.

"You go first," I croaked, my voice dying at the reminder of what I had to do.

"Pardon?" she said, pulling her purse onto her lap to rifle through it distractedly.

I cleared my throat. "You go first," I repeated and leaned over the table to watch her. "What are you looking for?"

"Oh, just—" She seemed to choke, eyes glimmering sadly, and sniffled. "Just a few – things."

"A few things." I craned my neck further to look inside her purse. A stack of envelopes, all stamped in red with RETURN TO SENDER. I stared for a moment, and then raised my eyes to Harper expectantly.

"They're letters," she blurted, handing them to me.

"I can see that," I said more harshly than I meant to. The bite in my voice emerged involuntarily as I saw the name printed on the address: Jordan Lynch. A glance over the rest of the envelopes told me they'd been returned recently.

Of course they had. Jordan was right here in New York.

"I don't know what to think." Harper wiped her eyes with her napkin and heaved a long sigh. "I've called everyone I can think of and they said he should be on leave. Emerson, do you think—" her voice broke, and she closed her eyes and swallowed before trying again "—do you think maybe he's dead?"

Oh, God. That _would_ be the conclusion Harper would draw.

"Maybe he deserted," I offered, like that was any better. Better than his cheating on her, at least.

"He would have told me," she said firmly. "He tells me everything. He wouldn't have just left us like that."

I couldn't look at her when she said things like that, so I glared at the wallpaper, a non-offensive cream that I nonetheless appeared to be taking quite offensively. "Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do."

" _Emerson_ ," she snapped. "I know you two have your issues—"

"He called me a faggot," I interrupted.

Flushing, Harper ignored me and pushed on, "—but he is my husband and the father of my child and I love him. I'm worried about him. Stop being so self-centered and take this seriously."

Usually when I imagined killing someone, I thought it made me a bad person and obsessed over how many levels of Hell I would be tortured in. Right now, however, I was sure that killing Jordan would make me a saint.

"They probably got his deployment wrong," I heard myself saying. I was vaguely aware of my mouth moving as I entertained myself with images of punching Jordan in the face. "Just wait a little longer, I'm sure he'll contact you."

She looked at me with the vaguest dawn of hope. "You think so?"

Jordan was in town. He'd threatened me with Harper's happiness; surely that meant he still cared about her? "I know so," I said.

Even if I had to ensure it myself. Even if I didn't know how.


	12. Chapter 12

Finding Jordan was a lot easier in theory than in reality. My experience as a reporter told me finding someone wasn't easy, but that didn't stop me from mentally concocting a stunning montage where I wasn't afraid to get my hands dirty looking for clues, literally, and I cornered Jordan in the end and saved my sister's marriage regardless of whether I actually wanted to. But the unfortunate truth was that I had no idea where to start. Or rather, I knew, but I didn't want to go there.

Sheridan still looked no less than enraged the next day. She'd chosen a vibrantly red ruffled blouse that expressed her anger well, paired with a smart pencil skirt and shoes so pointy they could open letters. The red clashed with her hair but brought out her eyes, and she was a maelstrom of intense color where she sat at her work station, clacking away on her keyboard with fierce strokes.

I was actually a little afraid to approach her, and it looked like I wasn't the only one. The copy editors and beat editors shared the same large room, our desks pushed into straight lines that divided the space evenly between our ranks. Usually, within our divisions, we all sat so close together that our elbows brushed – not including me, of course, because I had made it very clear from the start that touching was not allowed. Today, however, the other beat editors had given Sheridan such a wide berth of space that she probably could have stood up and comfortably turned a few cartwheels if she'd wanted.

I contemplated retreating to the break room first for a nice, bracing cup of tea, but I forced myself to square my shoulders, grit my teeth, and throw myself into the fray.

"Sheridan," I said in a pleasant tone that didn't match my terrified expression. "How are you doing today?"  
Sheridan spared me a scathing look that could have stripped the paint right off the walls. "How do you think?"

I winced. "Right, dumb question. You must be feeling pretty awful."

"Equal parts soul crushed and brutally vengeful," she replied without missing a beat. Minimizing her word processing window, she swiveled her chair to face me. "So, how'd the wife take it?"

Fantastic, considering I hadn't actually told her.

"Oh, you know, as well as can be expected. She's hurting as much as you right now."

Sheridan nodded sympathetically. An idea suddenly sparked.

"Actually, uh, she's having me do a little revenge research, if you don't mind helping out."

Something sinister lit up in her eyes. "Revenge, huh?" Reclining in her chair, she lifted one fist to pillow her chin and drawled, "Go on, I'm listening."

I was amazed that I wasn't fidgeting or sweating bullets. I was a horrible liar. "Well, I think she wanted to know where he was going, so she could have him followed and get some evidence. You know, pictures and stuff. That way she can clean him out in the divorce."

"And I'm supposed to help how?" she asked bitterly. "I couldn't get him to go out with me a second time even when I hadn't left a dozen vulgar voice messages on his phone."

I decided to ignore that particular detail and go straight for the plunge.

"If you just tell us where you met him, we can take care of the rest."

"Oh, that!" Brightening, she turned and plucked a pen and post-it from a neighbor's desk and then scribbled a name and address onto the pale pink sheet. "It's a bit of a dive, so you have to promise not to judge me before I give you this."

I smiled and took it from her, folding it safely into my front pocket.

"Don't worry, Sheridan. I promise."

* * *

From Sheridan's description of the bar as a "dive" I'd come prepared with latex gloves and a surgical mask stashed in my pocket. However, as I pulled on the brass handle to open the heavy door, I was met by low-lit chandeliers, green tablecloths, and a dark wood bar with high-backed black chairs. Not to mention the crush of people taking up every available chair. I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the crowd that overwhelmed my senses and sent my heart hammering, and seriously contemplated turning around and walking back to my apartment.

The fear that I might find what I was looking for and end up with my face rearranged was another pressing concern, but I forced my mind to conjure happy thoughts and coaxed myself into the room, one foot in front of the other. It was so packed that nobody seemed to pay me much notice. The anonymity encouraged me, and I relaxed my shoulders and headed toward the corner, my immediate source of comfort in any uncertain situation. With my back against the wall, my breaths came easier and my heartbeat seemed to slow a little, and I finally allowed myself to scan the faces in the crowd for Jordan.

He was nowhere to be seen.

That was okay, I told myself. You rarely found a scoop on the first try. I eased my hands out of fists and jammed them into my pants pockets instead, trying to blend in with the stripy patterned wallpaper and disappear.

Unfortunately, I was crap at disappearing, because a waitress eventually sashayed her way over to me and asked for my drink order with a perky, peppy smile.

"Uh," I said, not only uncomfortable but also entirely unfamiliar with drink menus. I only drank orange spice water and tea, which presented a bit of a problem in a bar. "Can I just have a glass of water for now?"

The friendly gleam in her eyes dulled although her smile remained in place. I didn't blame her; paying customers left tips, and I would not. But to her credit, she bobbed her head in a nod and informed me she would be right back.

I don't know what made me notice it. I was examining my fingernails for dirt and thinking about how I wouldn't have anywhere to set my drink when I saw a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. Actually, there was a lot of movement in all directions, but this particular direction in this particular space was tall and broad-shouldered, and my head snapped up before I could even register it was doing it. I caught the faint impression of someone with a familiar gait disappearing behind the swing of the back door, and then nothing.

It could have been nothing, but it also could have been Jordan. I sent up a silent prayer that I wouldn't be ruining the waitress's night by being the dick who ordered water and left, following the person whom I both hoped and feared was Jordan out the door.

Blackness outside. Not even a street lamp or an outside lamp for the bar workers to take the trash to the dumpster. It seemed like a pretty big safety hazard, so I deduced it might have recently burnt out. Or purposely been extinguished.

The hairs on the back of my neck raised and I felt a sudden chill. I decided to say fuck the detective business and go back to my cozy, safe apartment, but a voice in the darkness startled me into staying still.

"Lynch," snapped an unknown voice. The flare of a match lit, followed by the red glow of a cigarette. It illuminated a man's face in the darkness; straight nose, heavyset eyes, dark, slicked back hair. I didn't know him, but I definitely knew the voice that replied.

"Petrov," Jordan said, surprise showing in the tone of his voice. "This is a bad time."

"I'm sure it is," Petrov sneered in a heavy, stereotypical Russian accent as he stalked closer. I could see that was taller and bulkier than Jordan, a feat I'd thought somewhat impossible. "He wants a date on the next shipment."

I didn't know who He was or why He was interested in a shipment, and I didn't think I wanted to. In fact, I was quite sure I didn't want to. My foot inched back toward the door, my heart banging in the cage of my chest. In the darkness of the night outside the bustling bar, I misstepped and nudged a bottle with my shoe. It rolled toward Jordan and Petrov and I stopped breathing.

"Shh." Petrov instructed, his hand reaching into the fold of his jacket. He produced the unmistakable cold black outline of a gun, and I was glad I wasn't breathing, because if I had I doubtlessly would have given myself away with a gasp.

"You're not going to scare me into agreeing to anything," said Jordan in a tone I would never dare using to an armed Russian. "I told you once, I'll tell you again – I don't know when I can bring the next shipment."

"I'm serious, shut the fuck up," Petrov said importantly. He dropped his cigarette, snuffed it underneath his heel. We were truly enveloped in complete darkness now, and I wasn't sure whether I was thankful for or fearful of the absence of light of the new moon. Belatedly, I realized that sneaking back inside would be a dead giveaway that I'd been eavesdropping, and I'd likely be shot. I held stock still, scarcely allowing myself to breathe, and waited.

After a beat, Jordan snorted and said, "Whatever, Petrov. Listen. My contact overseas has been nothing but static lately. I've got to wait until I hear from him before I can give you a date for a shipment, okay? You're not the only one hanging out in limbo here."

"He will not be happy," Petrov noted, but seemed content to leave it at that. I heard the sound of clothes ruffling followed by the crunch of footsteps on the concrete. "I will tell him. Be sure not to leave town."

I waited while Petrov split down the alley, presumably for the street. Jordan scuffled around a bit longer, swearing under his breath and kicking the wall, and then eventually went back inside. I shied away from the light but stayed careful not to touch anything, holding myself as close to the wall as I could. My heart was still beating like crazy, and I counted the heartbeats up until one hundred, then two hundred, and then did it again just to be safe.

Cautiously, I opened the back door to the bar and peered inside, scanning the room for Jordan. I didn't see him. Of course, I hadn't seen him the first time I'd looked around, so that didn't mean much. I stood there so long that a drunk girl at a nearby table slurred at me to close the door because there was a draft.

That startled me into motion, and I skulked through the bar and hastily out the front door, hoping I hadn't been seen.

* * *

I returned to my apartment, managed to reign in my impulses and slam the door only five times, and set about feeding Mistoffelees, who was quite upset about being neglected all night. To my surprise, Nicolas knocked a scant few minutes later, and I let him in.

"Hey, Em," he said as he stepped inside. He was dressed in his pajamas and smiling, but he looked tense.

"Did I wake you up?" I asked, checking the time on my watch. Eleven. Bordering on an early turn-in from what I knew of Nicolas.

"Nah, I was just lounging." He reached for me, visibly checked himself, and then went to the cabinet to get out a pair of gloves. "Waiting for you, actually. Where have you been all night?"

This could have been one of those cases where I got mad at him for acting like my keeper, but I was actually touched. My heart fluttered, and in any other situation I might have started worrying that I'd developed an irregular heartbeat. "Out," was all I said.

He snapped both gloves on and frowned. "That's a bit odd for you."

"Yeah." After following suit and pulling on some gloves of my own, I reached out and touched his face, smiled reassuringly. He kissed my palm and made a face at the latex. One day, I hoped, we'd be able to do this without the gloves, but for now, I was grateful for what I had.

"I'm sorry, I'm being selfish. It's good that you got out." Pulling me close, he nuzzled my hair and kissed the top of my head. Bit my ear. My skin tingled for all the right reasons; hands were the dirtiest, so I wasn't as concerned about his mouth, and I had to shower before bed anyway.

"It is," I agreed, relaxing with my head on his shoulder. He smelled like soap and shampoo, and the clean smell made me feel safe and drowsy.

"I just wanted to talk to you, is all."

"Mm?" I pulled back to look at him, the bright flash of his warm blue eyes. He had lovely eyes, much as it embarrassed me to admit it. At least I didn't have to admit it out loud. "Anything important?"

He hesitated, then shook his head no and released me. "It can wait 'til tomorrow. I just thought I'd wait up to say goodnight since I hadn't seen you yet today."

My chest warmed and swelled, then stuttered and died out. Something about the phrase "I hadn't seen you yet today" made me realize that, for a terrifying moment with the silhouette of the gun in darkness, there had been a very real possibility that he might not have seen me ever again.

Was this worth it? Playing secret keeper for a man I hated just because of a threat? If I had any common sense at all, I'd tell Harper about Jordan's double life and then go straight to the police. None of this wannabe reporter amateur sleuth crap that I'd pulled tonight.

"I'm sorry I've been kind of weird lately." Burrowing back into an unannounced embrace, I squeezed my eyes shut against any negative thoughts and kissed his jaw. It wasn't enough. Impulsively, I asked, "Real kiss before you turn in?"

"Um." He looked bewildered, but then a smile broke out, and he laughed. "Like you even need to ask."

Giddily, we swished with mouthwash and kissed goodnight.

I must have been losing my mind, because on top of instigating a hug and requesting a goodnight kiss, I actually felt like saying something sappy before the door closed behind him.

* * *

In the morning, I pushed my giant stack of articles to read to the corner of my desk and fired up my computer. I opened up Word and quickly began recording everything I'd learned so far, feeling like a true reporter for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

"Ooh, what are you working on?"

I jerked so hard I nearly fell out of my chair. Looking up, I saw it was just Sheridan and not Jordan or some tall Russian with a gun. I breathed a sigh of relief and instructed my heart to stop tap-dancing.

Sheridan laughed at my discomfort. "Guilty conscience, huh?" She peered critically at my screen. "What are you doing, writing notes for a mystery novel?"

"Yeah, they're notes," I hedged as vaguely as possible. She could think what she wanted. Best not to tell her the truth, lest she get involved even more than she already was.

"Suspenseful." She leaned forward to read the screen and batted my hand away from the mouse when I tried to minimize the window. Her eyes glimmered. "What is this about, a drug deal? Have you got a sexy blue-eyed Italian detective lined up?"

Ignoring the hint at my preoccupation with Nicolas, I latched onto the possibility that Jordan was involved with drugs. The little gray cells whirred, and I decided that it was most likely drug trafficking. Bringing in shipments under the guise of being deployed by the military. Sketchy, just like the terrible impression I had of Jordan.

"Yes, and no," I said delicately. "And anyway, it's none of your business."

She refused to take the hint. "Is this true crime stuff? Because you could probably talk to Steve about that."

Steve and I weren't really on the best of terms. Or any terms at all, really. Ever since our first awkward meeting in the break room and the subsequent tattling to Mr. Kincade, we hadn't really spoken. Our only interactions took place in the form of scribbled notes on his articles when I pointed out his awkward wording and he agreed to change it.

Still. He was the Legal News beat editor, so he probably knew a lot more about drug deals than I did. It was worth a shot.

"Steve," I said thoughtfully, nodding. "Yeah, I think I'll do that. Thanks, Sheridan."

"No problem." Preening, she finally abandoned her interest in my screen and began heading back to her desk. "Just promise you'll let me read it when you're finished."

I smiled tightly, imagining all the things that could go wrong, the information I could misinterpret, the danger I could put myself in.

I shrugged and said, "If I finish, sure."

* * *

"Nicolas?" I said softly once I was home and Nicolas and I had settled into our usual spots.

"Hmm?"

We were sitting on my couch together, shoulders and knees touching, watching a documentary on the History Channel about Cortez. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, I felt like I was going to puke. I had butterflies in my stomach and they weren't the pleasant kind; I'd finally decided to tell Nicolas about Jordan and I had no idea how he would take it. My guilt complex told me he was going to blame me for everything despite the logical side of my brain insisting that Nicolas was sweet and understanding.

"I need to talk to you," I eventually forced myself to say.

"Oh?" His stance didn't change, but I could feel the sudden tenseness in his legs. He tilted his head and said in a too-casual tone, "About what?"

I stared, unsure what to make of this aloof version of Nicolas. Either he was truly intrigued by Cortez's armor and horses, or something was up. A lump suddenly appeared in my throat at the thought that maybe he already knew what was going on – or worse, he had other reasons to be angry with me. I swallowed, leaning my shoulder into the safe, familiar warmth of his side, and said, "Yeah. It's kind of serious, so could we turn off the TV?"

If possible, Nicolas stiffened even more. Woodenly, he reached for the TV remote and hit the power button. The TV winked out mid-sentence. Nicolas said nothing.

"You're freaking me out a little with the silent treatment," I blurted.

That seemed to spring him into motion. He turned to look at me, and I finally recognized the tenseness in his body for what it was: fear. "I'm freaking _you_ out?" he asked incredulously. "I'm not the one saying we need to have a serious talk. That's usually a death sentence for relationships."

"Oh," I said. I could maybe be a bit of a moron sometimes. That made a lot more sense than Nicolas's following me and keeping tabs on my adventures as an amateur detective. I realized he still looked upset, so I rushed to reassure him. "It's nothing like that. I just have something to tell you."

He still looked wary. "Is this about where you were last night?"

"More or less," I said, gnawing on my lower lip. I told myself he wasn't going to overreact. Everything was going to be fine. "It's about Jordan."

"Please tell me Jordan isn't having an affair with you, too."

"No!" I burst out, surprising myself with my vehemence. Or maybe it wasn't such a surprise, given what I knew now about Jordan.

Nicolas looked at me like he wanted to hug me but knew better than to try. "Thank God. Then what is it?"

Self-consciously, I reached up to touch the scratches on my face. They were taking a long time to heal. After realization had sunk in that I'd essentially been motor-boating a dirty brick wall, I'd been cleaning it thoroughly every day. It had the rather unfortunate effect of irritating it instead of helping it. I supposed there really was such a thing as "over-cleaning".

Nicolas, following my motions studiously, suddenly frowned as understanding dawned in his eyes. "Jordan did this to you?"

And now the moment of truth. I nodded. "He threatened to hurt me if I told anyone else about his sleeping with Sheridan."

For a while, Nicolas didn't say anything. I knew he wanted to, or was at least thinking about it, because I could see his jaw muscle jumping as he mulled everything over. He was being surprisingly calm about the whole thing.

Or at least that's what I thought.

"I'll kill him," he finally said after much debate, standing.

"Oh, God, don't." I got up too. Gloves be damned. I grabbed his arm with both hands to prevent him from marching over to his apartment and equipping himself with a butcher knife for a manhunt. "That's a terrible idea."

"Em, that man is sick," Nicolas said, jerking away. His face looked like I'd never seen it before – hard and unfeeling. "We need to call the police."

For some reason, that was even worse. My heart lurched and I felt sick to my stomach. "No, we can't. Please. He'll find out."

"Damn right he will, because they'll be arresting him." Looking like his mind was made up, he snatched the phone from his cradle and started dialing. Without washing his hands. And no gloves.

It was too much. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a hundred pound weight. I sank back onto the couch, struggling to breathe, and wondered if this was what it felt like to die.

"Emerson?" Nicolas dropped the phone and knelt by my side. Distantly, I could hear the tinny sound of a 911 operator asking what our emergency was. I gasped for breath and felt the pressure of tears behind my eyes.

"Chest hurts," I managed to say.

Nicolas looked scared. "Are you having a heart attack?" He scrambled for the phone and pressed it to his ear. "Hi, uh, there's something wrong with my boyfriend. I don't know. He's on the floor crying and he says his chest hurts."

Oh, God, I did not want an ambulance to waste a trip out here.

"It's okay," I rasped, reaching for the phone. "Don't make them come all the way out here just for me."

That's what I tried to say, anyway. Nicolas didn't seem to understand me. He just frowned deeper and deeper and said, "Don't worry, Em, they'll stay on the line with me until they get here."

"Don't," I said weakly, but he ignored me.

After that, I stopped remembering much.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSWF. Mature content ahead. (Aka BUTTSEX AHOY)

I woke up to familiar sunlight and Mistoffelees purring and kneading my stomach in his normal morning greeting. In Misty-speak, it was a strong-worded suggestion to feed him. So I sat up, swung my feet onto the floor, braced my hands on the bed—

"Emerson?"

And screamed. Mistoffelees bolted for the living room. I jumped to my feet faster than I had  intended, whipping around. I found Nicolas in my bed, blinking sleepily and rubbing his face. _In my bed_.

"What—how in the—what are you—"

He mercifully cut off my rambling with a frown. "Are you feeling better? Maybe you should sit down."

I did. Hard. Nicolas bounced with the bed and I couldn't stop staring at him. "Why are you in my bed?" I asked.

Finally, he seemed to grasp the important implications of this and blushed. "It's not what you think. I was worried. You refused medical treatment last night so I—"

I held up a hand to stop him. My brain couldn't keep up with all of this. "Medical treatment?" I asked. "What happened?" _And this still doesn't explain why you couldn't have slept on the couch_ , I added mentally.

His eyebrows furrowed as he sat up. "The paramedics said you had a panic attack. You don't remember?"

"A panic attack," I repeated slowly, thinking back through a haze to the night before. I clearly remembered telling him about Jordan, and then Nicolas picking up the phone to— _Oh God_. A bolt of terror shot through my chest. "Please tell me you didn't report Jordan to the police."

"I didn't."

I deflated with a rush of relief. "Thank you. He would have known it was me and then who knows what he would have done."

"I know," Nicolas said softly. "I'm sorry for freaking you out. I was kind of hoping you wouldn't remember. According to the paramedics, it's pretty common for people not to remember what happens during a panic attack." He drew back the covers and rolled to his feet, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. It looked like he hadn't left all night, not even to go across the hall for a pair of pajamas. Unbidden and completely inappropriate given the serious mood, I felt a warm ache of affection for him.

"Thanks for worrying about me," I said, pushing myself to my feet again. Now that Nicolas was out of the bed, I shucked off the sheets and comforter, bundled them in my arms, and headed for the washer.

"You're welcome." His voice and footsteps trailed shyly behind mine. "So do you have any plans today?"

"Shower, work, more work, dinner, sleep." I tossed all the laundry in the washing machine and added detergent, humming thoughtfully. "Maybe a call to Demitrav's office, too. I don't think my medication's working."

Nicolas snorted.

I glared at him over my shoulder. "What's funny?"

"First, it's Saturday. Second, are you joking? You're so much better. Just give it more time."

"Well, that's nice of you to say, but _first_ ," I mocked him, "deadlines are coming up so I have a ton of extra work to do, and second, I don't know if you noticed, but I had a panic attack last night." I slammed the lid of the washer and cranked the dial to a full 16-minute cycle.

"That's different. You were scared. All the other stuff…" He walked over to me and put his hands on my waist, his face hovering dangerously close to mine.

"Um," I said, leaning away. "Are you serious?" I gestured to the lack of space between us.  "We haven't even brushed our teeth. Please get your face away from mine."

Oddly, Nicolas didn't look the least bit offended. Instead, he looked happy.

I blinked at him. "What are you smiling about?"

"You," he said, and then he kissed my cheek and let me go.

"Nico, that's _sick._ " I furiously scrubbed at my face and ran into the bathroom. I would still have to shower, but I needed to wash that off my face immediately.

"I think you underestimate yourself," he said, following me.

I turned on the tap and furiously splashed my face. "I think you need to stop touching me."

"Because it wasn't okay, or because it's habit to push me away?"

"Because—" I stopped, lifting my head to frown at my reflection as I took a quick stock of my feelings. No pounding heart. No sweaty palms. No panic. Still worrying, but that was so normal that I probably would have been more alarmed by a lack of concern. Startled and a little awed, I raised my eyes to meet Nicolas's in the mirror and said, "Habit." I felt a light bubble of relief in my chest just saying it out loud. It was like a light bulb moment, an epiphany, and suddenly everything looked different.

Looking inordinately pleased, Nicolas strode up behind me and put his hands on my waist. "That's what I thought," he said with a wink. He was so close that his breath stirred the little hairs on the back of my neck and I shivered.

"What are you doing?" I asked. Like I didn't know what he was doing – he was starting something. And, nervousness aside, I liked it.

"Nothing," he said coyly, leaning in to kiss my shoulder. It tingled. My face rapidly turned pink.

"Um," I said.

"You okay?"

Was I okay? My heart was pounding, but I was fairly certain it wasn't from anxiety. Dazedly, I turned around and allowed myself to be drawn into him, mouths gravitating to each other like magnets. I could hear heavy breathing and was embarrassed to realize that it was my own.

Nicolas grinned at me, framing my face between his hands, his thumbs pressing into the bones just behind my ears. He looked happy. Proud. His thumbs moved in small, tender circles as he said, "Good."

He licked the corner of my mouth and I jumped, surprised by unprecedented ticklishness. Then he kissed the side of my neck and nuzzled my skin, making me hold my breath, my heart pounding and my eyes closed. I waited for him to kiss my mouth again but it never came, and I opened my eyes to find him reaching into the medicine cabinet for the mouthwash.

At my incredulous stare, he shrugged and smiled and said, "Sorry, I got a little carried away and forgot." He held out one of the bottles to me and added, "Swish?"

Suddenly, my eyes stung, and I hugged him fiercely and refused to let go.

"Woah, there," he said, steadying himself on the counter to avoid toppling both of us over. "Are you sure everything's okay, Em?"

"It's great," I said thickly, blinking too hard and feeling like a giant idiot. "You're just perfect. Everything you do. I don't know why it took me so long to notice, or why you waited."

Nicolas was always smiling, but the effect never seemed to waver with overexposure. This time when his face split in a grin, it was just as gorgeous as ever, his lips parting to show teeth that were so white and straight they had to be from an orthodontist's office. Oral hygiene had never looked so attractive. Especially when he followed it up with a swig and a swish of two kinds of mouthwash for exactly sixty seconds each.

I was still rinsing when he turned back to me, nipped at my jaw, and deadpanned, "I snore."

I blinked and spit into the sink. "Okay?"

Laughing, he slipped his arms around me and said, "Just pointing out that I have flaws. I'm not perfect."

"Oh, right." Things I did not care about when I could be having more of my first anxiety-free (or at least anxiety-reduced) kisses of my life: Nico's snoring. Or any flaw, for that matter. He looked like he was going to say more, so I thumbed his swollen lower lip and kissed him, reveling in the reassuringly clean taste of mouthwash.

"Mmph," he said, a happy sigh, which I took to mean he wasn't complaining, and he gripped me tight and held me to his chest. Normally I might have felt self-conscious about the height difference, but at that moment, it felt right. Everything did. To my surprise, I even felt an intrigued stirring of heat between my legs as he gently sucked on my tongue and let his hands roam over my backside.

That almost made it sound like I was celibate. True, I didn't, uh, pleasure myself often, but it was a hygiene thing. All of sex was a hygiene thing, a health concern, a danger issue.

I remembered a time before the disorder when I'd been young, a teenager, trying to figure out my sexuality and hide it from my family at the same time. Back then all it had taken was dinner, some nice words, and extended eye contact. I'd never been easy, exactly. I'd still been neurotic and insisted on meeting somewhere out of town so no prestigious friends of my parents could see and tattle, but it had definitely been _easier_.

And here Nico was, wonderful and willing, and it had already taken this long. It just wasn't fair. I still had no idea why he'd waited around for me, but I was glad he had. Now I finally had the chance to make it up to him. Maybe. I was nervous and quite frankly terrified that we would end up with STIs if we braved something that physical, but I still knew the basic mechanics and trusted Nicolas to stop if I freaked.

Basic mechanics. Sexy, thy name is Emerson.

I looked up at Nicolas through my eyelashes and saw his clear blue eyes, glistening wet mouth, and Roman nose, and I licked my lips. I felt want. Fear and want, but mostly want. Now I just had to figure out how to tell him.

Luckily, it seemed like we were on the same page. He skimmed his hand underneath my shirt, over my ribcage, and there was a moment of vertigo where I felt like I had no stomach. In a good way. He looked down at me and bit his lip.

"I need to be honest," he said, pushing up the material of my shirt so he could rub my stomach in rhythmic, sensual circles. "I'm trying really hard to restrain myself, but I've wanted you for a long time and you're making this difficult. So unless you want to take this further, I think we should go back to the living room and watch TV."

He was almost breaking my heart with his sensitivity. It was unreal. No real person was that sweet without ulterior motives. Except here he was, chest heaving with lust beneath my very fingertips, and I believed him.

"I'm okay," I said, and kissed him to prove it. As he lowered his hands to squeeze my rear, a warning bell went off. Things weren't okay yet. "Actually," I said, pulling away and looking exceedingly embarrassed, "I don't have any – you know, any supplies."

"I do."

I stared at him. "Are we using the same definition of supplies?"

He looked shy as he took out his wallet and produced a condom and a small, pillowy packet of lube.

I raised an eyebrow at the fact that he'd been carrying those around with him. "Just one?"

"Why would you need two—" he started, then quickly trailed off and blushed, what seemed like the first blush I'd ever seen on him, as he realized what lube and only one condom implied. "I'm sorry, since it's you, I should have been carrying two. I can go back to my apartment and get another one if you're uncomfortable."

Every part of me screamed to tell him to get another one. But I recognized that anxious urgency, and I knew how to deal with it. I took a deep breath, thought of something pleasant to replace my nerves, and said, "No, it's okay. One's fine."

We ended up staying in the bathroom – Nicolas insisted, just in case I freaked out and needed immediate sterilization, no pun intended. By the time our shirts were off and he'd asked for the tenth time if I was _sure_ I was okay, I folded my glasses on the counter, silently reached into the shower, and turned on the hot water. It stuttered a moment, then came down in a steamy spray, and I gave him an expectant look.

He got the picture. We took off our pants and undershorts, him confidently and me blushingly, and then climbed into the tub together. There was a moment I seriously considered backing out, caught between being embarrassed and unsure yet unbearably turned on, but he simply took me by the hand and tugged me under the spray. It gave me enough confidence to sneak a look up and down his lean, tan body and blush at what I saw.

I swiped my wet hair off my forehead and smiled at him, nervous and pink-cheeked. There was a lot I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat. Mutely, I took up the soap and stood there, staring at him, before I shyly touched his chest and started washing him. All of him. He stepped so close that our breath mingled, and then he picked up the washcloth, lathered it, and reached around me to run it lovingly over my shoulder blades and the curve of my back. Gently nudging my legs apart, he swirled the cloth over my thighs, and then dropped it and reached for the lube. My legs trembled as there suddenly weren't any more distractions to keep me from acknowledging how hard I was.

"Emerson," he said, looking thunderstruck, and pulled me into his arms. Behind my back, I heard the squelch of the lube packet over the sound of the water and I jerked at the abrupt coldness at my hole. But Nicolas just kissed me softly and ran his nails over my back as he stretched me with the fingers of his other hand, gently and then firmly, until I was squirming and making throaty noises against his shoulder.

Nerves fluttered in my stomach as he wiped his hand on the washcloth and then reached for the condom. He lifted it to rip it open with his teeth, but I stopped him. Too easy to tear the rubber that way. I opened it myself and then hovered over him, suddenly too embarrassed, and handed it back to him to put on himself.

The beginning was the worst. No discredit to Nicolas, it just always was. I turned to face the wall to make it easier, but even then just the tip inside me felt like so much more. The awkward, burning sensation of being stretched beyond my limits was more painful than I remembered, but the jolt of pleasure I got when Nico started rocking into me the right way was better than I remembered, too.

"Nicolas," I gasped. I held onto the wall and braced myself against the no-slip decals on the tub, trying not to worry about falling and cracking both our heads open on the tile. At least the tile would make for easy clean up later.

"Call me Nico," he panted against my back.

I started. "What?"

I must have unconsciously clenched, because he groaned and twisted. "Call me Nico," he said again, desperate and pressing wet kisses against my shoulder.

Great, our first awkward sex moment -- and it was our first time, too. My first time since college, even. I'd never been into the whole call-me-baby kind of thing, so it felt weird to hear something similar coming from Nicolas's mouth.

"Nico," I said – softly, tentatively. I put my palms flat on the wall and pushed back against him, saying it louder. "Nico."

"Shit," he said, burying himself in me less carefully with every thrust. It was okay, because it felt good, and I hung my head and breathed heavily. He was a talker. "I love it when you say that. You've only ever said it once before, and I—ahh, fuck."

Quite a talker, at that. Were all Italians noisy lovers? Did normal people think this much during sex? Was I—Oh.

Nicolas had shifted and hit his stride, and I felt every inch of him in the best way possible. My knees buckled, but he caught me, holding me against him while I tried to see past the figurative stars in my eyes. I caught my breath and moaned, hyperaware of his puffs of air hitting the hair plastered to the back of my neck.

"That," I said, the sound of my voice thin and unfamiliar. Needy. "Do that again."

He did, and I groaned, balling my hands into fists. One of his hands slipped around to my front, trailing down my stomach and between my legs. He jacked me off in time with the snap of his hips, firm and warm and solid. I lost all concept of time as my balls tightened, my stomach seized, and I came all over the tiled wall. Dazed and boneless, I slumped back into Nicolas and he held me up, still moving against me. He kissed the back of my neck and grunted, then stilled as I watched my come wash down the wall with the water while he chanted, "Emerson, Emerson," like he was lost.

I felt lost, too. I was sore, my chest was warm and heavy, and the water had gone cold. I suddenly realized that I was shivering and naked and I'd most definitely just had sex with my neighbor.

But he wasn't just my neighbor. He was Nicolas, and he carefully slid out of me, holding me as I winced. Then he turned off the shower, tied and pitched the condom, and draped a towel from the rack over my shoulders. Kissing my neck, he brushed my hair away from my eyes and murmured, "Okay?" like he really meant it. His eyelashes were heavy and wet from the shower, giving him the appearance of permanent bedroom eyes when he looked at me.

It was okay, I told myself. I'd wanted it, and even though I hurt a little and I was worried about the state of my tub, I was happy. It surprised me to think it, but I was. I might have even been in love.

"Okay," I said hoarsely, turning in his arms to share the towel and smile at him. He beamed at me, meeting my gaze full on, and gently helped me out of the tub. He had beautiful eyes.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Um, yeah." Bashfully, I held my towel close to my body and kicked my dirty clothes into the hamper. It took some feet acrobatics, but I didn't have to touch it with my hands. I gave Nicolas a Look when he tried to pull on his old clothes and he grudgingly put away his laundry, too. Then, without asking me, he washed his hands twice and dried his hands on a fresh towel.

God, he put up with the dumbest shit for me. Maybe I really was in love.

* * *

All of Nicolas's careful, ah, "ministrations" to calm my nerves were promptly undone the moment I stepped into work on Monday. A private memo from Kincade sat in my inbox asking me to meet with him at my earliest convenience. Since I was incapable of forming a single positive thought, my mind raced ahead to conceive dire situations: I was being fired. Someone had accused me of theft. Jordan had told him a sinister lie about my personal life to threaten me into silence.

White-knuckled with fear at my desk, I curled in on myself, head against my knees, almost sick to my stomach. I minimized the e-mail so I couldn't look at it any longer and subsequently come up with more horrible scenarios. It was early and people were still trickling into the office, so it was only me and a few other coworkers, thankfully empty enough that nobody noticed the fact that I'd suddenly gone pale and clammy. The lump in my throat wouldn't have let me talk even if I'd felt like explaining myself.

_Okay, Emerson,_ I told myself. _Speranza trained you for this_. I flipped open my bag and found the notes she'd written for me at one of our sessions. Stress and anxiety relief techniques.

#1: Breathe.

Obviously, in order to be alive, I was already breathing. But it was fast, shallow, and seemed to be making me more nervous, not less. Closing my eyes, I pictured complete whiteness as per Speranza's instructions and counted the length of my breaths until they were five seconds long three times in a row. My shoulders and chest felt looser, but there was still a tingle on the back of my neck that told me danger was coming.

I opened my eyes and looked back down at the list. #2: Distract Yourself. How the hell was I supposed to distract myself from an oncoming panic attack? I skipped down to #3: Self-Soothe. I couldn't even remember what that meant, but I assumed what I'd done with Nicolas on Saturday probably counted.

Back to the list. There was no #4. Great. I crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash.

I managed to leave it there for an entire minute before I fished it out, smoothed it out on the corner of my desk, and tucked it back into my bag. Sometimes I thought I was a lost cause, but Nicolas had faith in me, so I could get through this. I just had to do it and get it over with. She hadn't written it down, but Speranza had a name for that, too: Effectiveness.

I could do this. I could be an effective person. I knew I was supposed to rely on my own inner strength or some kind of psychobabble, but it really helped to imagine that Nicolas believed in me.

Somehow, I managed to drag myself to Kincade's office, where Michelle the temp was miraculously still employed. She'd cleaned up the receptionist desk and had gotten rid of the bored expression, so I assumed she'd gotten a rather stern talking-to. When she saw me, she sat up straighter in her chair and immediately hit the intercom button.

"Mr. Kincade, Mr. Lyre is here to see you." She let go and smiled thinly at me. "You can have a seat."

Wow, someone had been through sensitivity training. I nodded my thanks and stood by the chair that I still refused to sit in, waiting for Kincade. He didn't take long.

"Lyre," he said brightly, boastfully as he strode out of his office. His expression said it all – eager, open and sincere. Emphatically not the face of the man who was about to fire me, unless I'd misjudged him and he was actually a sadist. But I didn't think he was a sadist, because he considerately avoided shaking my hand and waved me into his office instead.

"Mr. Kincade," I greeted him, feeling considerably less apprehensive as I planted myself in front of his desk. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Unfolding a pair of glasses from his breast pocket, he slid them on his nose and shuffled through a pile of papers. His desk was always covered in haphazard piles that made my teeth hurt and my fingers twitch, but I shoved my hands in my pockets and waited as patiently as I could. Kincade snatched up a print out and squinted at it. "You've been doing good work lately, Lyre."

Relief swept through me. I felt myself grin. "Thank you, sir."

He flicked the paper with his index finger and eyed me over the edge. "I mean really excellent. I've noticed a big improvement in you." Leaning back in his chair, he took off his glasses and tossed them on the desk. "I've got a proposition for you."

My palms started to sweat. I tried to speak, cleared my throat, and tried again. "Yes, sir?"

He pointed at me. "I'd like to get you on the Legal News beat. Leave Sports up to Pattiz. How does that sound?"

"Um," I said stupidly, suddenly dry-mouthed. Get it together, Emerson. I wiped my palms on my pants and gave him a nervous but sincere smile. "That sounds great, sir. When should I – when can I start?"

"Today should work just fine, don't you think?"

Today. My life, back in order. Normal paychecks that meant I didn't have to dip into my savings just to pay my electric bill anymore. Yeah, I thought that would work out great.

"Thank you so much, sir," I said, a little overwhelmed.

He waved me off. "Just on a trial basis, you understand. Do a good job and we'll make it permanent."

"I will," I promised excitedly. I meant it.

Looking amused, he gestured toward the door and told me to get to work. I swept past Michelle without even acknowledging her and floated back to my desk. My tiny, shitty but spotless desk that didn't seem so shitty anymore.

Sheridan was waiting for me, and I grinned at her so hard my teeth hurt and said, "Guess who's taking over Legal News for Steve."

Squealing, Sheridan leapt off my desk – normally I would have rebuked her for sitting on it, but right then I didn't care – and pumped a fist in the air. She was always so excitable. "You!" she sang jubilantly. "Oh, Em, I'm _so_ happy for you. Have you told Nico yet?"

Nicolas. He was going to be so proud. Flushing, I shook my head and pulled out my cell. "It just happened. He's probably at work, don't you think?"

Sheridan hovered over my shoulder and jabbed at the screen. "Who cares, just text him!"

"Uh," I said, staring at my phone. I wasn't really much of a texter. "Yeah, just give me a minute."

"Oh, _honestly_." With nimble hands, she took the phone from me and speedily thumbed out a message. She hit the green send button and tucked it back in my hands with a sparkle in her eye.

The sent message said, _got promo to legal news. celebrate tonite ;)_. It was something no proper editor would ever send, but there it was. With a winky face. To my Nicolas, asking to celebrate. But not surprisingly, the ache in my ass couldn't wait.


	14. Chapter 14

I should have known that things could only go downhill from there. When I got home, I stripped off my tie and flipped on the TV, hoping to catch the weather or some heartwarming news of a kitty fashion show while I dressed to meet Nicolas. Instead, I tuned into a breaking news story of a murder near my apartment.

Now, this was New York, so murder stories weren't really that uncommon. Usually they weren't even important enough to interrupt other broadcasts like this, unless a serial killer or a school was involved. The rarity of it was actually what caught my attention, making me bend forward to catch the caption scrolling underneath a picture of a man named Ivan Petrov.

Despite the grainy photo that looked unerringly like the man from the alley and the coincidence of the name Petrov, I might have been able to convince myself it was a different person. That was until turned it up just in time to hear the news anchor report that Mr. Ivan Petrov was suspected of illegal arms dealing and had been shot, execution style, behind the bar where I'd tracked down Jordan. After that there was no way I could keep deluding myself.

The remote fell from my hands and I took two staggering steps back, like distancing myself from the TV could distance me from reality. I knew in my gut that it was Jordan, it must have been Jordan, because who else would be meeting him there with a gun? Opportunity and motive would land him with a guilty verdict before he'd even get the chance to defend himself. Not that I wanted him defending himself to me.

"Oh, God," I said aloud, horror stabbing deep into my chest. I was the last one to see Jordan and Petrov together, and my self-preservation instinct said that I had to get out of there as soon as possible.

It was kind of like being in a fire. Drills told me that there were only so many things I was supposed to bring with me, preferably none. In the middle of all that panic and heat and flame, I was supposed to remember to leave the briefcase and the safe deposit box and climb out the window. But in reality, it didn't work like that. I scrambled for the things I found the most important, which, in the haze of my panic, turned into quite a haphazard bunch: a bottle of Purell, my messenger bag, a sweater, and Mistoffelees, of course.

I didn't have anywhere safe to go, so I went across the hall to Nico's. Mistoffelees squirmed and meowed plaintively, but I clamped him firmly under my arm and knocked. The door swung open almost immediately, and Nicolas's suggestive look of impatience quickly gave way to concern.

"Em, what's going on?" he asked even as he moved out of the way to let me and Misty in.

I had the vague thought that I'd left my TV on and my electricity bill was going to be outrageous this month, but I pushed it firmly away and focused on Nicolas's face. "It's complicated," I said, dropping Misty so he could zoom under the safety of Nicolas's couch. It was blue with battered throw cushions and looked like it needed a good steam cleaning.

Nicolas followed my eyes and blushed. "Sorry, I would have cleaned if I'd known you were coming over. Are you okay?"

"I don't know." My fingers shook as I reached for his door and locked it. I triple-checked it before I went in search of a chair and propped one from the kitchen underneath the door knob.

He laid a soothing palm on the small of my back and frowned. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I thought about it and my heart clenched. Shaking my head, I drew away from him and cast a discerning eye about his apartment, noticing the dirty dishes lingering on his end tables and the general disarray of food magazines littered across his floor. On autopilot, I gathered and straightened the magazines, then grabbed the dirty dishes and carried them to his kitchen sink. Nicolas followed behind me frowningly.

"You don't have to do that," he said, taking the sponge from the counter before I could grab it. "I can clean up if you're uncomfortable."

"It's not that. I just need something to distract myself." I rolled up my sleeves, pried the sponge away from him, and turned on the hot water. As a chef, he took good care of his cookware, so there were no pots and pans around. There were plenty of plates, however, so I put them in the sink to rinse and bent to rummage in the cabinet underneath for his soap.

Nicolas watched me with a kind of pain in his eyes that I had never seen in another person before. Under normal circumstances I might have mistaken it for pity, but his cloudy, worried eyes struck me to the core and I knew that it wasn't anything more than worry. I could tell he wanted to push me to talk about it, but instead he stood up on his tip-toes and pulled the dish soap from one of the higher cabinets.

"Ran out of the room under the sink," he told me with a quirky smile and kissed my cheek as he handed it over. "Safer up there, anyway. Out of reach of cats and kids."

Safe. Yeah, right.

With renewed urgency, I attacked the dishes with the sponge and dish soap. Behind me, Nicolas emptied a box holding a bulk supply of noodles and started shredding paper in it for what I assumed was a makeshift litter box. He didn't have cat food, but he did open a can of tuna and pour water into a cereal bowl and set them both down for poor Mr. Mistoffelees. Misty himself came slinking out at the sound of the tuna can and rubbed up against Nicolas luxuriously as he ate.

When the dishes were stacked cautiously in the drying rack, I washed my hands, wiped them on a paper towel, and hesitantly admitted to myself that I might have overreacted. Then someone started banging on a door across the hallway and I jumped and screamed like a girl, sending Mistoffelees running for cover. Nicolas stared at me with deep concern.

"You okay?" he asked.

I clutched both my hands to my chest and took a deep breath. My heart was banging so hard I could actually feel it through my shirt. "I suppose," I said, unable to keep the waver out of my voice.

"So, no, you're not okay." Nicolas walked over and put his arm around me. "You want to talk about it yet?"

Whoever had the scary knock across the hall started thumping away again. I shut my eyes and curled into Nicolas, almost shaking. I didn't think I'd overreacted anymore—I thought Jordan was out there, trying to get into my apartment. I just hoped he didn't know enough to come over to Nicolas's.

"Em?" Nicolas prompted, petting my hair.

Heavy footsteps in the hall. I tensed, my paranoia telling me exactly who it was, and tried to warn him. "It's about Jordan."

I should have known better than to expect that situation to go well. Nicolas's reply was cut off by a sharp bang on the door.

"Don't answer it," I begged on reflex, digging my fingers into Nicolas's forearms.

He drew back enough to look me in the eye, taking in my undoubtedly petrified expression, and asked, "What's going on?"

"I think it's Jordan," I confessed. Bile rose in the back of my throat at the anxiety the mere thought produced, but I forced myself to continue. "I was watching the news before I came over. Petrov is dead."

His eyes narrowed. "Who is Petrov?"

Another knock. I couldn't bring myself to answer.

The look on Nicolas's face changed, his lips tightening and his eyes darkening. He pulled me behind him and stepped forward. "If that's Jordan, I'll take care of it. You stay here."

I wasn't going to stay there. If Jordan was really here to kill me, I was either going to run and hide under his bed, or stand by him to back up my man. But I definitely wasn't just going to stand there like a moron. Nicolas shouldn't have had to pay for my screwed up family dynamics and even crazier brother-in-law.

Creeping forward, I kept close to his back as Nicolas put his hand on the door knob and held it there. He pressed his ear against the wood, listening and waiting. Then, just when another knock came, he pushed me back and threw open the door.

There stood Jordan, wearing dirty-kneed cargo pants and a muddy t-shirt. Nicolas grabbed him by the collar, hauled him inside, and threw him against the wall.

"Holy shit," I said, utterly shocked by Nicolas's bad-assery. I slinked behind the island in the kitchen to keep a safe amount of space between us.

Nicolas continued to be a bad-ass. Keeping a hold in Jordan's shirt, Nicolas shoved him into the door, digging the door knob into Jordan's kidney. He lowered his face threateningly close to Jordan's and said, "If you're who I think you are, then you'd better not be here to hurt my boyfriend."

" _Boyfriend_?" Even in dangerous situations, Jordan still managed to look disgusted.

Nicolas made a noise that I might have called a menacing growl if I'd been a lesser writer.

Jordan threw up his hands, shielding his face. "Fuck, I swear! I'm not here to hurt anyone. I'm just in trouble and I didn't know where else to go." He looked past Nicolas to search out my face, pleading. It was an expression I'd never seen on him before. Where he was usually stony, militant and indifferent, he was now childlike and scared. "I can explain everything. I need your help."

* * *

I stared at Jordan with disbelief. His explanation had attempted to paint a picture of a loving father who'd gone in way over his head trying to provide for his family. It would have made a nice _Lifetime_ movie if it hadn't sounded like total bull.

"You actually expect me to believe that?" I scoffed.

Jordan was sitting at Nicolas's kitchen table with a mug of fresh-brewed coffee in his hands. He'd taken it with both sugar and cream, something that humanized him even more than the fear in his voice had. He looked up at me, resigned, and said, "No, but it's the truth."

Beside me, Nicolas was even more incredulous than I was. He stood with his arms folded threateningly over his chest, hovering in Jordan's personal space, as if to remind him that if he laid one hand on me Nicolas would seriously mess him up. But even though I could tell Nicolas wasn't buying what Jordan was selling, he remained silent, leaving it up to me.

I leaned forward, putting my head in my hands, and pulled at my hair. "I don't know what to believe. I want to believe that you were doing it to get extra money for Harper and Langley. I want to. But you've always been an asshole to me and it's hard for me to accept that you'd come to me in your time of need."

He looked ashamed. "You're right. I have been a dick to you. But if I go to Harper, then she and Langley will be in danger."

Fresh fear shot up my spine, making me straighten and bristle. "Oh, so it's okay to put _me_ in danger?" I yelled, already on the edge of my seat. "Are you saying that people could be on their way here right now?"

"Shh," he said, motioning with his hands for me to sit down and compose myself. "No, that's not what I'm saying at all. We should be safe here for a while. They don't know my real last name."

Nicolas made a noise like he thought Jordan was an idiot, but he withheld comment.

Jordan licked his lips and pushed on. "I need you to know that I didn't kill Petrov. I saw the person who did, and they know I saw them, so that's why I'm in trouble. This has just gotten way out of hand and I want out. I'm thinking about testifying against them or something."

I didn't know what to say to that. Bitterly, I wanted to tell him something to the effect of "you made your bed, now lie in it," but I knew that any harm to Jordan would ultimately devastate Harper and Langley. I blew out a long, hissing breath through my teeth and sorted through my thoughts.

Jordan deserved whatever they gave him, but taking down a ring of criminals was probably more important than my own petty revenge. I had to help him, then. Not to mention that it would get Jordan the hell out of Nicolas's apartment.

"You need to call the police," I said.

"That won't work," Nicolas said, speaking up for the first time. "At least not from Jordan's phone. If they're smart, they've already got it tapped. I don't want Em getting any more involved in this so he already is, so you can use mine."

Jordan's eyes showed fear. "I don't think so. They could pick it up on a police scanner. I need you to file a fake report for me to get an officer here, and then I can do the talking."

After a moment's hesitation, Nicolas looked at me, and I could almost feel the uneasiness rolling off of him in tangible waves. He was conflicted about something. "Ideally, I'd rather not be directly involved, so I think our best option is a pay phone."

Smart, wonderful Nicolas. While I was terrified that a bunch of Russian mobsters were going to burst through Nicolas's door at any moment and gun us into Mrs. Norris's ceiling, Nicolas seemed like he had the situation under complete control. It came as an unexpected relief.

Nicolas decided that it would be safest if he went down to phone the police by himself, leaving Jordan and I alone in his apartment. We sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, him with his mug of light-colored coffee and me simply staring at my hands. It was no small mystery why Jordan was reluctant to talk when we'd never gotten along and he'd just admitted to being involved in illegal activities, but something had to be said, so it was up to me.

After a tense span of five minutes, I lifted my eyes to look at him. He seemed so fragile now, just sitting there, slumped over like a broken man with no wife or family, and in that one moment, I felt intensely sorry for him. But I still couldn't forgive him.

"You know, I've never forgotten that time you called me a faggot."

Jordan wearily raised his head. "Are you serious?"

Oh, good. Adding insult to injury. Definitely a good way to gain my trust.

"Yeah," I said, glaring. "It was kind of a big deal."

"And it's kind of a big deal to be gay in the military," he retorted. "It was nothing personal. It's just the environment I'm used to."

"Nothing personal," I scoffed. "Right. So what made you think that a faggot like me could help you?"

"Because I saw you in the alley that night," he said, unexpectedly. "You're stronger than you seem, and you're smart. We may have our differences, but we're still family."

It didn't seem like there was a lot else to say after that. It was true. While it hadn't been the apology I'd been looking for, I suspected that being called family was the closest I was going to get.

We fell into a mutually awkward silence until Nicolas came back. He was thin-lipped and tense, but still very much composed as he grabbed Jordan by the bicep and yanked him out of the folding chair. He kept his grip tight and his eyes hard.

"I'm going to take you down to the lobby and we'll wait for the officer together," he said, and then looked at me, his face softening. "Emerson, you're going to stay here, okay?"

That struck me as an odd contrast to Jordan's recent words that I was strong and capable. Part of me wanted to insist, to say that no, I was just as competent as Nicolas, and I was coming too. But I knew that wasn't true, and I was more likely to panic and hyperventilate behind a potted plant than I was to be useful. So I nodded, staying seated as the two of them walked out the door.

* * *

What could have been hours or minutes later, Nicolas walked back in, shutting the door quietly behind him. I was still on the couch, but I twisted, peering over the back of it at him. His face was shuttered as he put his keys on the kitchen table and sank onto one of the folding chairs.

I stared at him with significant apprehension and said, "How'd it go?"

He ran his hands through his hair, pushing his wavy bangs away from his forehead, and sighed. "As well as it could have, I guess. I gave them my statement and they took Jordan into protective custody. They wanted to send an officer to guard us but I said no."

I gawked. "Why would you do that?"

A shrug. "I thought it would be pretty obvious who helped him if we had body guards hanging around."

That was true, but the thought of going back to my apartment alone for the night gave me fresh chills. Jordan had found me, so why couldn't the men who killed Petrov? I hugged my arms and frowned. "What should I do, then? I don't feel safe going back tonight."

Sympathy dawned on his face, followed quickly by mischief. He plunked himself down on the couch next to me and grinned. "Of course you don't," he said, putting his arm around me. "That's why you're going to stay the night with me."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "I am?"

He winked. "Definitely. As long as it takes until you feel comfortable again."

"Thank you." Smiling, I leaned into him and reached up to curl my fingers around his arm. "But we'll have to wash your sheets first," I added seriously.

Nicolas must have been more than used to me at this point, because he only laughed and got up to strip the bed.

* * *

I woke to a kind of déjà vu: frantic knocking on Nicolas's front door. This time it was different, though. Faster, lighter, and more desperate.

Nicolas was awake too, sitting up in bed and looking around in confusion. But then his eyes fell on me and understanding dawned in his eyes, immediately spurring him into alertness.

"You want me to get it?" he asked, his voice low and serious. It might have been soothing in any other situation. Right now it was just scaring the shit out of me.

At the thought of what had happened last time, still tinged with the fear of being executed by the Russian mob, I pulled the covers up to my chin like they could protect me. "Yes," I said meekly.

He found his pants on the floor and pulled them up, buttoning them, before he quietly crept from the room toward the front door. I kept the blanket clutched to my neck and waited, straining my ears for the sound of a struggle or, God forbid, gunshots. Abandoning one hand from the blanket, I fumbled around under the sheets until my fingers closed over the cool, reassuring plastic of my phone. I flipped it open, dialed 911, and held my thumb over the green "call" button, waiting to call the police.

Needless to say, I nearly fell off the bed with surprise and relief when I heard Harper's voice, high and unsteady, say, "Oh, Nicolas, I don't know what to do!" followed by the feminine sounds of sobbing.

Harper. I was on my feet in an instant, previous fear forgotten in the face of comforting my sister. I couldn't even imagine what was going on in her head right now. Last I'd checked, she was under the impression that Jordan was dead or missing—and for all I knew, he could be. Maybe Jordan and the officer had been intercepted on the way to the precinct, silencing them forever.

I found my shirt and trousers and threw them on as fast as possible. But even in my state of urgency, I still stopped to check my reflection in the mirror above Nicolas's dresser, smoothing out the wrinkles on my work shirt. I was still buttoning the cuffs when I emerged into the living room, where my sister was standing in tears.

"Harper," I said, feeling drastically inept. "Are you okay?"

"Emerson," she warbled, and literally flung herself into my arms. Her face was wet where she pressed it against my cheek. "I just don't know what to do."

I patted her on the head with one hand and made frantic, grabby motions at Nicolas with the other, gesturing for some form of baby wipes or hand sanitizer. Either he was a genius or he knew me very, very well, because he bent and dug into my messenger. When he found my Purell, he squirted some into my hand, and I silently thanked him with all my soul. To Harper, I said, "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

I gently guided her to Nicolas's couch. Once she was seated, I rubbed the sanitizer in and sat next to her. For one horrifying moment I thought she was going to throw herself on me again, but to my relief she just grabbed a throw pillow and sobbed into it.

"Jordan's here," she said after she'd taken a moment to dab her eyes with the hem of her shirt. "He's been here the whole time, lying to me. He's—well, I can't go into detail, but…" She trailed off, trembling. "Long story short, he's going out of town for a while and he wants me to come with him."

 _Witness protection_ , I thought to myself, followed by the relieved realization of, _Oh, thank God, they don't know I'm involved_.

Selfish, maybe, but I couldn't help it. I tried to make it up by gingerly putting my arm around her and tugging her against my shoulder. "All I know," I said into her fresh-smelling hair, "is that I'd miss you if you left, but I want you to be happy. And safe. So whatever decision you make, as long as you're happy and safe, I know it'll be the right one."

Over the top of Harper's head, Nicolas gave me an approving look. I was feeling rather proud of myself as well until Harper gave a great shuddering sigh and covered her face with both hands, breaking into fresh tears.

"Er," I said, pulling away. "Harper? Was that the wrong thing to say?"

"No," she sniffled and peeked at me through her fingers. "It was perfect. I'm so sorry, Emerson. I've been so wrapped up in my own issues that I missed my own little brother growing up."

I snorted and ignored the way Nicolas was holding in laughter. "Don't worry," I told her dryly. "It's been a recent development."

"Oh, Emerson," Harper said in a heartbreakingly tearful voice. She gave me a watery smile and patted my hand as she wobbled to her feet. "I would miss you too. Thanks for the advice."

I was already going to need a shower, so I got up and pulled her into a real hug this time. "You're welcome," I said, surprised to find a lump in my throat. It hadn't occurred to me before that she might actually leave with that bastard.

She wiped her eyes and then returned the hug fiercely. "I definitely have a lot to think about."

I did, too.


	15. Chapter 15

After all the excitement, waiting a whole week for my next appointment with Speranza was out of the question. I called her office the next morning and spoke with Carol, insisting on one of the emergency appointment slots that afternoon. Carol agreed pleasantly enough and I made room in my schedule to swing by.

Sitting in the waiting room, I was struck by how many times I'd been there and how different I was each time. Like every visit brought me substantially closer to the person I was supposed to be. I heard Speranza's heels clicking down the hallway, heralding her approach. When I looked up, I saw she was smiling at me, and what I presumed was my folder was tucked under her arm.

"Emerson," she said brightly. "You look well today. What brings you here?"

"Nothing I want to announce publicly in the waiting room," I replied. I hadn't been sitting, of course, so I only had to walk across the room to greet her. We didn't shake hands, but I forced a smile back.

Her own smile transformed into more of a smirk at my attempted humor. "Well, then, let's go to the room, shall we?"

I stood across from the painting of the tree I liked so much and watched as she tucked herself into her usual chair. She crossed her legs, the folder and notebook spread across her lap, and held her pen above the paper. The action was so familiar by now that I actually found it kind of reassuring.

"A lot's happened since the last time I saw you," I said.

Speranza raised an appraising eyebrow. "I can tell. Where should we begin?"

The strap of my messenger bag was digging into my shoulder, but I didn't take it off. I just stared at my hands, twisting my fingers together as I thought. Since I'd seen Harper, I'd been doing a lot of that, but I hadn't come to any conclusions yet.

I cleared my throat. Best to start at the beginning, I supposed. "Well, first of all, Nico and I are—uh, well. A couple. Officially, I guess."

"You guess?"

"We haven't talked about it, but we, uh. You know. Ahhhh..." I trailed off, blushing.

She watched me patiently and made a motion with her pen for me to continue.

God damn this woman. She was actually going to make me say it, wasn't she? I looked at the wall and said, "We slept together, so yeah."

Her smile was ridiculously bright for a woman who'd just been informed her patient had engaged in gay sex. "Congratulations, Emerson. That's a big accomplishment. I'm very proud of you."

I half-laughed, half-coughed at the trite sentiment. Usually I would have scorned it, but I was inclined to agree with her this time. It was pretty awesome.

When I didn't say anything else, she prompted me with, "And how do you feel about that?"

"Scared," I admitted honestly. "But also happy. It's intimidating sometimes, but he makes me feel good."

"That's wonderful," she said, scratching down notes. "I think it's perfectly normal to be a little scared sometimes. It's not overwhelming, is it?"

I shook my head. "Not at all."

"Excellent." Scritch, scritch, scritch. "Then if things are going well there, I suppose that's not the reason you requested an appointment today?"

"Er, no. I've been having—well, I don't really know how to explain it. I had a really bad panic attack the other night."

"Was it your first one?"

I didn't answer right away. If I thought about it, no, it wasn't my first. I could recall several times when I'd felt something similar. But this had definitely been the most intense.

"No," I said. "But it was pretty intense. I'm worried Dr. Demitrav will want to change my medication."

"What caused it?" she probed.

What a loaded question. I knew this session was strictly confidential, but something still held me back. Opening up about my innermost feelings was a little different from sharing protected identities and events.

"The whole Harper and Sheridan situation," I said instead, which was still kind of the truth. "I told Sheridan and she freaked out. It was pretty stressful."

"I see." Speranza's pen paused. She looked at me from beneath the soft wave of her dark hair, gentle and contemplative. "This isn't the most encouraging thing, so I don't normally like to say it, but in this case I think it's appropriate."

"What is?"

Putting down her pen and paper, she folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward to look me in the eye. It was a typical caring therapist pose. But it was Speranza, so it felt genuine.

"No matter how much medication you're on or how much therapy you go to, there will still be things that trigger symptoms, like anxiety attacks," she said. Her eyes were caring as she continued, "But that's not to say there's no hope. Think of it like this: instead of feeling like that _all_ the time, you only feel like it once in a while in dire situations."

Well, when she put it like that, it made me feel significantly better.

"So I'm not getting worse?" I ventured hopefully.

She scooted her chair closer. "Absolutely not," she said fiercely. "Emerson, I have to tell you that you're one of my favorite patients. You're a great example of how medication and therapy work well together. I'm very happy to have you in my care."

More corny sentiments that would have been meaningless from anyone else. If she was just putting on an act for me, I didn't want to know. She was making me feel the best I had in weeks. I wanted to believe it was all sincere.

"You don't know how relieved I am to hear that," I told her.

Laughter. Picking up her pen again, Speranza crossed her legs the other way and got re-settled. "Oh, I think I do. You should see your face."

It was an immediate, self-conscious reaction to reach up and touch my face. My cheeks were stretched and my lips were curved. I was smiling.

"You're a miracle worker," I said, awed.

She winked at me. "Don't cut yourself short. You did most of the work yourself."

* * *

Deadlines were always killer. When I walked into the office, the noise was the first thing I noticed. With the panic of a time limit and Kincade practically breathing fire down our necks, the decibel level had risen to something closer to a carnival or a mass riot compared to its usual buzz. Keyboards clacking, printers whirring, frantic phone calls to clean up miscommunications about "they're" versus "their" versus "there".

All this, and I'd gotten here half an hour early, a time when the office was usually dead quiet. It was the eighth wonder of the world that the newspaper business hadn't spontaneously combusted yet.

I tip-toed through the chaos to my desk, where my "In" pile had grown exponentially larger than my "Out" pile overnight. However, I was still pleased to see that the top article of the staggering heap was from Legal News.  It was a nice reminder of my recent accomplishment. More like a step closer to a normal life—something so far in my past I could barely even remember having one.

Of course, that was not considering the recent developments with Harper and Jordan.

But I wasn't going to think about that. I was going to distract myself so the worry didn't overwhelm me. Harper would make the correct decision. I just had to trust her…

Distracting myself. Right.

I picked up the top article and scanned the headline. My face immediately went pale and cold and I very nearly dropped the paper. As it was, my breath snagged in my throat and sent me into a coughing fit. Over the top of her own impressive stack of work, Sheridan sent me a concerned glance.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I just need some water," I croaked, setting the article back on my desk. I shuffled past her and Steve without making eye contact and shuffled into the break room. My personally labeled mug was in its usual place, white and pristine. I grabbed it, filled it with water, and drank greedily.

When I'd sufficiently calmed down—or at least bloated myself on tap water—I crept back to my desk and picked up the article again. Murder in NYC wasn't really big news. But an insider witness with the mob and a pending trial date? Shit.

Holding my breath, I scanned the article for any mention of me—or anyone else I knew. Only when I'd read it twice and had confirmed that it solely used vague terms like "witness" and "victim" and "potential, unspecified mob affiliation" did I relax.  Even if this nebulous article was somehow matched to the Petrov incident, Jordan and I had different surnames. It would be harmless if I was listed as the editor in the byline.

I sank into my chair with a sigh and let myself breathe easily again. I rolled my shoulders, tilting my chair sideways to get a pen from the drawer. I had a deadline to meet, so I had to focus, no matter what. With the way my life was going lately, I wasn't eager to screw it up again.

* * *

I dragged myself home at close to nine that night. There was one missed call and two text messages from Nicolas asking where I was. Exhausted, I hung up my messenger bag and coat and debating whether I wanted to return his call or simply go across the hall.

The appeal of physical comfort and a half-formed plot to beg for authentic Italian food had me easily swayed. I deposited my scarf next to my other divestitures and wearily slumped toward the door. Hopefully Nicolas wouldn't mind if I was still in my work clothes, argyle socks and all.

I went across the hall and hesitated outside his door. It was eerily quiet. My hackles raised with a sense of premonition but I told myself I was just being paranoid. Jordan was in witness protection and Speranza had said it herself—I was better. There was no point in listening to my anxiety anymore.

I lifted my hand and knocked. Just twice, waiting for the sound of his footsteps. Instead, I heard a loud "Shhh!" followed by a female giggle.

What. The. Fuck.

"Nicolas?" I asked. There was no way he had a girl in there. Well, not for anything scandalous. As far as I knew Nicolas was gay, gay, gay.

The door opened a crack. Nicolas's eye appeared in the one inch opening. "Emerson?" he said in surprise.

"Um, yeah." I leaned to the side to try to peer in. "What're you doing in there?"

He shifted in front of the door. "Nothing. Can you come back in like ten minutes?"

I stared, taken aback. "Are you serious?"

"Er." Wincing, he opened the door a little wider. "You're right, that sounded weird. We'll just start it now." He looked over his shoulder and called, "Places, everyone!"

I stood on my tip-toes to try to peer over his shoulder. A futile effort. "What's going on?"

When Nicolas looked back at me, his smile was radiant. "Oh, just a little something for you." He stepped aside and swung the door open, revealing his crappy little apartment had been transformed into a Hawaiian-themed party. Plastic flowers hung like streamers from the ceiling and a fake coconut served as a punchbowl on his kitchen table. There was a cake and a colorful assortment of cookies next to it.

But more importantly, there were my friends, few as there were. Sheridan and Steve stood around the table, beaming at me. And behind them, loitering by the couch, stood my mom and dad, decked out in Hawaiian shirts.

I noticed with a sinking, stabbing feeling in my gut that there was no Harper.

I tried to shake it off. Went with humor instead. Turning to Nicolas, I tried on a smirk and said, "What's with the luau theme?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "All they had on sale. It was kind of a last minute. We just wanted to do something to say we're happy for you."

Mom raised her cup of punch to me and smiled. "And proud of you."

My heart skipped a beat. No matter how many times I heard that today, it seemed like it was still going to hit home. If only Harper could have been here, too.

Overcome with emotion, I sought out Nicolas's warm, solid hand and squeezed it. "I don't know what to say. I thought maybe you'd discovered my lifelong obsession with Hawaii," I joked weakly.

"You could start with 'thank you'," he said.

"Oh, he doesn't have to thank us," Mom cut in. She handed off her cup of punch to Dad, who looked at it dispassionately before downing it in one swig. Mom didn't care, though—she walked over to me and gave me a delicate, one-armed hug, complete with two pats on the back. It was our usual exchange, but it felt more meaningful than usual. I held onto her and returned the embrace with both arms.

"Verity," Dad admonished in his smoker's croak, "get off the poor boy. You know how he hates touchy-feely things."

"Oh, pish." Mom sniffled and withdrew, dabbing at her eye with her oversized flower-print sleeve.

"Really, it's okay," I said, surprised to find that it was the truth. I felt relaxed today, and no immediate Purell cleansing was necessary. I was comfortable enough to release Nicolas's hand and drop into one of the chairs gathered around. I poured myself a cup of coconut-y punch, adamantly not thinking about Harper. This was my celebration and I was determined to enjoy it. Dwelling wouldn't have any effect on her decision.

But I couldn't help it. It was at the forefront of my thoughts. I must have been pretty transparent, because Nicolas dropped into the chair next to mine as soon as my mom fluttered back to my dad's side.

"I tried to call her," he said, inching his fingers closer to mine across the tablecloth. His fingertips brushed the tops of my knuckles. "She didn't answer, but that doesn't mean anything."

I didn't have to ask who "she" was. With a sigh, I put my head down on the table, face pillowed in my arms, and stared at the coconut punch bowl.

"That's assuming she left," he said.

I glared at him. "You know she did."

"You're being—oh, hi, Sheridan."

I glanced up just as Sheridan sat on the edge of the table, beaming her silly head off. "Congrats again, Em!"

"Thanks," I said, dragging my mind away from the emotion-laden conversation with Nicolas. I looked past her at Steve, whom I had nearly forgotten was here. "Um," I said to her and Nicolas, voice barely above a whisper. "Why is Steve here? I mean, it used to be his job. Isn't that a little weird?"

"Oh." Sheridan turned pink and looked behind her. She seemed happy. Glowing, almost. "He's my date."

"I'm pretty sure work relationships are always a bad idea," I pointed out.

Nicolas cuffed me on the back of the head. "What I think Em meant to say was 'good for you'."

Sheridan tucked her bright hair behind her ears, grinning. "Thanks, I know. I thought it might not be the best idea, but then I remembered I've done way worse."

We shared a meaningful gaze that only made me think of Harper again.

Nicolas frowned, watching me with a keen eye. "I'm sure she would have called to say goodbye," he said.

I slumped. "Unless yesterday was goodbye."

"Hold on, who?" Sheridan said. She planted herself in the middle of the table and looked worriedly between us. "Who's leaving?"

"My sister," I said. "Maybe. It's complicated. She might be moving with Jordan."

Sheridan's upper lip curled. "No offense to your sister, but if she stays with that bastard after what he did…" She trailed off distastefully.

I froze. My stomach churned. All I could do was stare at Nicolas.

Sheridan gawked at me. "Emerson, you _did_ tell her, didn't you?"

Catching on, Nicolas stared back at me. All my thoughts were reflected in his eyes. "No," he said slowly.

"Well, shit," Sheridan said. She launched herself off the table and whipped out her cell phone. "What's her number? We'll call and tell her right now."

Nicolas shook his head. "She won't pick up."

"How would you know?" Sheridan asked, flipping her phone open." Let's try anyway."

"Because she didn't earlier," Nicolas explained tiredly. "But go ahead and try. Em, can I see your phone?"

Numbly, I handed it over, sitting stock-still in my chair. Too lost to speak. Over by the couch, Mom and Dad were sipping fresh cups of punch and laughing at something. Dad was wearing his house slippers again. They didn't even know their oldest child might be leaving their lives indefinitely.

Because I hadn't had the courage to tell Harper about Jordan and Sheridan.

Sheridan took my phone and scrolled through my contacts until she found Harper. Then she hit call and held it up to her ear. "It's ringing."

My head snapped up. I looked at Nicolas with hope. "Did it do that before?"

"No," he said, bending to listen to the phone. "Went straight to voicemail. Do you think—"

"Hello?" Harper's voice answered, small and static.

I snatched the phone from Sheridan. "Harper?" I asked in a reedy, desperate tone.

"Emerson," she said, sniffling. "Oh, thank God. Please tell me I did the right thing."

My entire body was wound tight. Buzzing. I gripped the phone harder and said, "What did you do?"

"I stayed." She definitely sounded like she'd been crying. She snuffled again. "I just—we were talking, and he told me he'd slept with another woman—"

"He _what_?" I interrupted. I should have felt bad, but I was mostly relieved. Thank God he'd said something.

"Some woman he met while he was here. He said it was because he missed me—oh, it's all very complicated. I feel terrible, but how could I leave my life and my family to be with a man like that?"

"You couldn't," I said firmly. "Where are you?"

"The house," she said. "I'm packing."

"I thought you weren't going with him?"

I could hear Langley yelling in the background. Harper sighed. "I'm not, but I still have to move. I'm sorry, I can't really talk about it."

"No, no, it's fine. Hold on a second, okay?"

I covered the phone without waiting for a response. Nicolas and Sheridan were both watching me anxiously.

"Well?" Sheridan pressed.

"Change of plans," I announced to the room. Steve looked up from where he'd been chatting with my parents about sports. "Let's move this party to the park and meet Harper there."

"Oh, I was hoping we'd get to see Harper and Langley today," Mom said delightedly. "Is that her on the phone? Do tell her to bring a hat and gloves, dear, it's freezing outside!"

Dad reached down and tapped his house slippers. "That's why I wear these. And you tell me I'm crazy."

"I keep telling you, Edward, they're _inappropriate_. At least I got you out of your pajamas this time. When you go out in public, you have to keep in mind what kind of image you're presenting—"

I tuned out my parents' squabbling and uncovered the receiver again. "You still there?"

"Yes," Harper said. "Who else is there?"

"Mom and Dad. I, uh, got a promotion, so we're having kind of a party."

"Oh." She sounded taken aback. "Well, congratulations. Am I interrupting?"

"No! Um, I mean, no. I was wondering, do you want to meet at that park by your house? We could bring the cake and stuff and have it there where Langley could run around."

"Maybe no cake," she said, an echo of her usual humor returning. "You know how Langley gets when she has sugar. But sure, that sounds great. We can be there in twenty."

"Great," I said, giving the thumbs up to the rest of the room. Nicolas smiled at me and started wrapping up the cake while Sheridan went to hang off Steve's arm. "We'll see you there."

"Okay. Thanks, Emerson. See you then."

"No problem. And Harper," I added gently. "You did the right thing."

Harper was quiet so long that I thought she'd hung up. But then, softly, almost uncertainly, she said, "Thank you."

* * *

"She's a cute kid," Nicolas said, eyes focused on where Harper was holding Langley up to the monkey bars. The wind whipped his wavy black hair away from his forehead and sent his loose shirt fluttering against his frame. I squinted at him, studying the carefree lines of his face and the curve of his lips, and smiled at how happy he looked.

"Harper's a good mom." I turned away from him so I could watch my sister too. She had on a hat and scarf to fight off the bite of the early November air. Langley had started off with matching pink mittens but at some point had thrown them into the woodchips.

Nicolas put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into the warmth of his side. "I think she'll be okay," he said, gesturing to where Harper was cheering Langley along. Then he pointed to Sheridan, who was sitting on a park bench arm in arm with Steve. "Don't know if I can say the same for her, though. That girl goes through more boyfriends than hairstyles."

I smirked. "I wouldn't tell her that. She'll beat you with her feminist guile. Sexual freedom, you know."

At the word "sexual", Nicolas's ears went pink. I smirked harder.

"Shut up," he said, bumping my shoulder.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking it." He ducked down to kiss the top of my head.

"Yes, I was," I agreed, pleased. I would have said more, but Langley was bolting toward us with alarming speed. She stopped herself by clinging to my pant leg, looking up at me with her hair in her big brown eyes.

"Come swing!" she said.

"Langley, I don't think Uncle Em wants to," Nicolas started, but I held up my hand to stop him.

I smiled down at Langley and said, "Okay. We'll be with you in a second."

"Great!" Langley released my leg from her sticky-fingered grasp and tore off in the direction of my Mom and Dad, presumably to rope them into swinging, too. Even though there were only four swings.

When I looked back at Nicolas, he was staring at me with something akin to awe. Something warm and steady. Something like love.

I felt myself blushing. "What are you looking at?" I asked.

"You," he said, touching my cheek with his gloved hand. Winter gloves, not latex. "You're amazing."

"Oh, whatever," I said. I brushed away his hand but couldn't deny that I was pleased. I knew I was looking at him the exact same way.

"Whatever yourself. You ready to go swing, Uncle Em?"

I grimaced and burrowed into my scarf, wrapping it double around my neck for added warmth. When I spoke, my glasses fogged. "Not really."

"The best things always happen when you're unprepared," he noted, never taking his eyes from me.

I couldn't agree more. Nicolas took me by the bare hand to tug me over to the swings, and I let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, disgustingly sweet ending. I just couldn't help myself.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! This story was written from 2004-2012, if you can believe it. A labor of love, I'll call it. Hope you enjoyed. <3


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